


Silva

by mini_poppy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blow Jobs, Creampie, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Italian Mafia, Kidnapping, Large Cock, Lies, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Psychopaths In Love, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Suspense, Thriller, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 57,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27172829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mini_poppy/pseuds/mini_poppy
Summary: "I gave you too much freedom; it won't happen again, little girl."Mafia boss, Silva, wants what he shouldn't have and takes what he can't desire.He should've known.Irisa offsets the brittle balance of diabolical cruelty, but it's a forgivable transgression that he's willing to make an exception for.She's a simple girl with a special smile; something opposite of him as it burns into his skin with regret. Regret that he doesn't have her.He doesn't know if he wants to kiss the smile away or wrap his hand around her fragile neck until the light fades to black.He's a nightmare wrapped in visceral ink, a frighteningly obsessive man with missing morals.Silva would rip his heart out if she asks; he is selfishly generous to her whims.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 29
Kudos: 169





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

December is my favorite month.

The layers of glimmering snow enhance the beauty of hollow desolation, swallowing the gray haze of blue sky and enriching the gnarled branches.

Crunches of snow come with each slow, careless step as sharp snowflakes glide erratically along with the wind.

My lungs expand, inhaling the crisp air to match the white smoke from my parted lips.

I clutch the umbrella tighter, and the metal digs into my thick coat. I can still smell the fresh metal scent and a protective coating. It overpowers the faint pine odor for a moment until a breeze grazes into my lungs.

I adjust the umbrella after the prickly breath.

Winter means fewer people out during the night. Every step down the pedestrian path is one step closer to danger, but the isolation beckons me to stay a little longer.

Stupid?

Yes. That’s how serial killers take their victims.

Does my mind care?

Absolutely not.

I always wonder when did my body and my mind stop working together. It doesn’t bother me because it doesn’t hurt me in the short and long run.

_Live life on the edge_ , as one has said.

A small, nearly unidentifiable, crunch of dried leaf crinkles. The sound comes from somewhere behind me. I keep my eyes on the empty path, judging the distance between streetlights and straining my ears to listen for snow distortion.

There’s no sound. It could be my imagination, and it wouldn’t be the first time—

The strange shift of wind brush against my neck, taking the remnant of heat from my scarf before the knitted edges unravel. My shoulder throbs as the unstable twist of my legs sends me crashing over the end of the trail.

My coat absorbs the majority of the impact when I roll down the hill. It’s a short tumble, but the broken tree branches meet every inch of exposed skin.

The fall comes to an abrupt end as I gasp in delayed shock. My knees press heavily on the snowy grass with melting iciness seeping into my pants while the stinging cold bites the skin.

I shuffle back, sitting on the heels of my shoes in bewilderment as my mind skips with adrenaline. Instinctively, I tilt my head to follow the messy trail up the short, steep hill.

My eyes land on a pair of black, laced combat boots. It follows up a pair of strong legs, leading to form-fitting clothes that cling to a man’s thick chest. His big hands hang idly to the side as his broad shoulders stiffen.

The storm of gray darkens with irritation and something inexplicably malicious.

Why is he the one angry?

_He_ ran into _me_.

The man with an unsympathetic scowl glares viciously down at me, then whips his head to sneer towards the vacant street. I track his gaze, but I don’t see anything there.

He steps onto the steep hill with ease, trekking down purposefully while I scramble to my feet.

I thought he was big from the angled hill, but that was an understatement.

This man is massive, towering over me with an impatient glower. His body shifts slightly, and the muscles under his loose clothing coil noticeably.

I match his scowl as I incline my chin.

“You ran into me,” I echo my thoughts.

“What are you doing out this late?” he asks with such confrontational curtness that my annoyance contests his.

“A nightly walk,” I say as I brush off the snow. “Not expecting to get hurled down the hill.”

I don’t know how fast he was running around the corner, but the force knocked me to the core. I’m aware of the aching on my body, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I wake up with bruises.

I hope there aren’t any broken bones.

He sighs deeply with a click of his tongue. The man, a little too unfairly attractive, snakes a muscled arm around my waist without a word. My ribs slam onto his thick shoulder as dizziness curls at the base of my throat.

“What are you—”

“Silence, little girl,” he snaps. “I’ll leave you here.”

My teeth clamp down on my tongue when he hikes up the short hill with a form of agility that I never thought a man of his size can have. His firm fingers dig into my side, securing my balance in case I tip over his shoulder to make another unnecessary tumble down the hill.

“My name is Irisa,” I gripe as I tighten my fists on his clothes.

His grip pinches my side as he throws me off his shoulder. My weak ankles practically twist from the force, and it takes a solid second to find my footing.

I huff and snatch up my abandoned umbrella. It shields me from the heavy snow, but I don’t feel the temperature change.

This man’s hostile gaze of fiery gray burns a layer of caution into my skin.

“You know,” I grumble as the annoyance begins to ebb away, “Normal people would introduce themselves right about now.”

Something tells me this man is anything but normal.

He stays silent as his unrelenting stare holds mine. He’s reading me, gauging my reactions, and testing the hold I have on my trepidation.

He doesn’t frighten me; it’s a rather strange notion yet it doesn’t concern me either.

I’m in a relatively secluded trail known to morning runners, shrouded in the dimness, and facing a man who emits unspoken danger.

“Silva,” he says, terse.

“Mr. Silva,” I begin as I rest my umbrella on my shoulder.

His deep, velvety voice cuts in, “I don’t want to see you here again.”

I blink, taken aback by the sternness in his command. Just because he’s a handsome, older man doesn’t mean he can order me around like a pet.

I blink again, wondering why his physical attractiveness plays a part in what I thought. Odd, but it’s not enough for me to look into it with curiosity.

“Go home,” he hisses lowly.

It takes a moment for me to process his words, not for the lack of clarity but the dissenting assumption.

He’s a man whom I should fear. I can’t find it in me to do so.

The gloomy clouds’ silhouette sails away, casting an auric sheen into his gray eyes as indifference replaces irritation. Deliberate fear creeps through my burning veins, lining my muscles with a breath of mockery before circling my ankles in the embodiment of chains.

He glares, and my feet pulls me away. It’s an involuntary reaction, something new to me as the breeze dulls his soothing scent.

I glance over my shoulder, expecting him to stand there with an ushering glare. He’s not. The only evidence left of him is the trickling scent and our erratic footprints.

A skipped pulse nips my neck as I face forward. I tilt my head with a curious gaze at my trembling hand.

Strange, indeed.

Two sets of footprints turn my focus away from the hand; it wouldn’t catch my attention if a snowstorm didn’t cover the path before I started walking.

I halt and stare keenly at the ground.

One set of footprints is mine. The other is not Silva’s.

“Huh.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

“What did I say?”

The girl with a clear umbrella turns her head. Her cheeks dust a pale shade of pink, bordering on red from how freezing tonight is.

Irisa blinks owlishly, then a smile stretches widely.

“You again,” she says.

There is absolutely nothing happy about meeting her again. After last night’s unnecessary encounter, I had a restless night.

“Why didn’t you listen?” I gripe when she spins around to continue her walk.

The corner of my eye twitches. Stifling down a hiss, my tongue rest idly over my canine as a brief flash of pain chase away the unprovoked coil in my stomach.

“Walk with me, Mr. Silva,” she offers without looking behind her.

Against my better judgment, or maybe it’s a moment of weakness when her smile flashes somewhere in my mind, I find myself beside her.

“Now you don’t have to yell at me,” she comments joyously. “I have you as my knight in shining armor.”

I’m the last person who can and wants to claim that title.

“I’m not here to protect you,” I counter dismissively.

The naïve smile stays on her face.

“Did you go out of your way to meet me again?” she presses through a tone of hopefulness.

“No.”

My unimpressed tone doesn’t wipe the smile off her face, not even a twitch of difference. In fact, it turns wider, brighter, and more haunting—dreadfully perplexing.

An involuntary jolt strains my knuckles.

“That’s okay,” she whispers delicately. “What if _I_ want to facilitate a fated meeting?”

Melted snow clings to the plastic umbrella, but the blurry transparency doesn’t take away the brightness in her eyes.

Another strong twitch hits the same finger joint.

“Embarrassing,” I utter after moments of silence.

She gasps, affronted. “You really know how to hurt a girl.”

If I was anyone else with nefarious intentions seeing a young, stupidly trusting girl by herself in the dark, I wouldn’t be having a conversation with her.

I realize I have no reason to speak to her at all.

“You’d be dead, little girl.”

She hums with a breathy laugh. “What? You’re going to ram me down the hill?”

“Keep talking, and I just might.”

Irisa walks beside me with foolish confidence. I can’t put my thoughts together to form a conclusive answer.

I give her the benefit of the doubt that she doesn’t know who I am and what I do. I won’t pretend that people don’t perceive me as a threat. There will always be a brief flicker of hesitation and guarded caution in their eyes.

“I’m so scared,” Irisa mumbles softly as her pink lips tip into a pout. “I have bruises from last night.”

Whether if it’s an insinuation or not, I decide to ignore it. I don’t need to get involved with this girl. She’s going to end up dead one way or another, and it’d be troublesome to get rid of any connection with her.

Having murder charges filed at me is a pesky inconvenience.

I turn away from her expressive face to glance at the rustling shrubs. A squirrel jumps to the side, skirting through the snow and climbing up the flaking tree.

“You’re not going to ask me if I’m okay?” Irisa huffs and switches the umbrella to the other side.

I narrowly dodge the sharp points with a swift side-step. Knocking it with the back of my hand, she rests the umbrella on her other shoulder.

“Were you not taught to never speak to strangers?”

She cocks her head with inquisitively big eyes, and the adamant contemplation stirs a wave of anger in my stomach as my shoulders tense.

“We can be friends,” she declares with a determined nod.

“No.” A sneer curls into the corners of my lips.

This girl cannot and will never be more intertwined with my presence than she already is. I stop walking, and she does too with a curious tilt of her head. I glance over her umbrella, noting the broken streetlamp and the eerie curl between my ribs.

I meet her unwavering eyes. “I’m taking you home.”

Her brows shoot up in surprise as her lips pull into a sly grin. I scowl, trampling on the unbreakable smile.

“Or you can walk yourself,” I add unsympathetically.

“Lead the way!” she says, tipping her umbrella back to take away the hazy obscurity from her eyes.

With a riotous heartbeat and staggering rush of blood, my hands start to ache again. Her fragile neck exposes the delicate thread of discipline I have over bloodlust, and it’d be easy to take two steps closer.

I’d feel her pulse fight against my unrelenting hold, begging a sliver of mercy from a monster deprived of such a frivolous concept.

I know better than to let my mind deviate at a time like this.

“I live that way,” she quips with a finger pointing towards the dimmed path.

Unimpressed at her grin, I narrow my attention to her face rather than her general vicinity. It’s a costly mistake. Another strange, startling twist between my ribs turn into repressive weight.

It’s nothing I’ve experienced before. The stiffness takes over my body faster than what I’m capable of controlling.

There’s no denying it. I’ve seen conventionally beautiful women; they’re plastered on billboards, prancing around in arms of socialites, and at the top of the business food chain.

Discrediting them would be unwise, particularly in my world of profession. Murder, manipulation, sophistication—women don’t lose to men; perhaps much more vindictive.

This girl, _Irisa_ , is a lamb.

She wouldn’t survive a second. That’s enough reason to get her away from me. What I don’t understand is why I feel compelled to walk down this path again.

I never felt calm before, not once in my life, and this girl only worsens the monstrosity under my skin.

“Can I call you tomorrow night?” she asks abruptly.

Naturally, I say, “No.”

“Oh!” she retorts cheerily, “It’s going to be our secret meeting place.”

“It is not,” I counter with an adverse glare.

She’s either gullible or absolutely idiotic to not heed my warnings. I might be ruthless with my business, but I’m not void of morality—although, it’s fabricated.

A businessman needs façades.

“No need to be shy.” She laughs behind her hand.

Maybe I should kill this girl.

Her low hum trails off, echoing a nameless tune that ends during her third step.

“We’re here,” she utters with another smile.

I can’t fathom how many things can make her happy. Part of me wonders if she even grasps the concept of danger. Evidently not when I’m standing in front of her apartment condo.

Nothing special stands out to me. It’s a simple eighteen-floor building with an elevator on the side of the structure. There’s no lobby or security guard, but this could be the back of the apartment condo.

She steps inside the dull elevator, and I’m in before I could blink. She turns her smile at me while pushing the seventeenth floor. I choose not to think about it; I’ll give myself a headache while trying to figure out what this vexing drop in my stomach means.

We leave the elevator in silence as well.

As she turns to peer over the railing, her hair falls away from her shoulder. The patch of smooth skin looks fascinating, almost beckoning for me to bite down.

“Goodnight,” she whispers as she slides her key in.

My lungs expand for her sickeningly sweet smell when the door opens. I glance down and into her home, the floor mat holds another pair of heels.

“Deadbolt it.” I knock my knuckle on the top lock.

Irisa nods enthusiastically, but she doesn’t close the door. I contain an exasperated sigh and slam the door in her face. Tapping on the protruding lock sternly, I wait to hear the click.

It comes a second later than I preferred.

The neighbor’s door opens with a woman’s voice mentioning rent. A balding man securing his belt strolls out from the door, his attention focusing on the woman’s voice as she calls.

“Deducted rent, yes?”

“Maybe tomorrow night can be full rent,” the man replies sleazily.

The woman giggles before closing the door. The man instantly notices me with a pitched gasp, and he stumbles backward clumsily.

“Who are—” He stops and stare at Irisa’s door. “The boyfriend is real.”

He curses under his breath and spins around. The man waits for the elevator while I make way to the stairs. His stale stench is repulsive.

I pass the mumbling landlord and down the pitch-black stairway. His voice serves as claws, halting me and encouraging the vehemence in my blood to whisper temptation into my ears.

The man says, crackling, “She’s still pussy; boyfriend or not.”

A heartbeat stilled, and darkness swallows the semblance of clarity.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

Kava tea tastes what I imagined. Disgusting.

Setting the mug down, I lean back onto the chair as I watch the white clouds dissipate. Morning crisp hits differently; it’s clean, calming, and rather luring.

A clump of snow slides down from the balcony shade, hitting the floor below with a dull noise. Last night is the second snowstorm in a row, and there’s been talk about businesses closing for the day.

It’s predicted that another one would hit around the afternoon.

My legs curl deeper into the small cushioned chair, knitted blanket heating my cold skin, and a pillow supporting the bottom of my spine.

Discarding the tea, I pick up my book and open the bookmarked page. The pen in my hand scribbles notes on the side, serving as a reminder of usefulness.

I manage to read half a page before my interest turns to the crow walking on my neighbor’s railing.

A moment of silence extends when its black eyes capture mine.

Closing the book, the soft sound forces the crow to flock away hastily. I hoist the blanket, pillow, and book into my arms to set them into my cozy apartment. I go back for the mug and look at the swirling content with repulsion.

People like new things, they like recommendations, and they like to know what they are missing out. This gifted premix kava tea came with my order of fruits.

I dump it into the sink and wash away the stench.

I need to make errands to not fall behind on newfound normalcy; it took me years to settle properly, and I will not let hard work go wasted. I like this apartment. No one bothers me, it’s close to stores, and it’s a space where I can ignore everything.

Shouldering my backpack, I leave the apartment as I list the things that I need to buy.

It’s a misty morning, and it worsens the icy moisture.

The door locks behind me while I dodge the ray of intense sunlight in my face. Shielding the light from my eyes, I peer through the fingers with confusion etching in the corners of my lips.

The sun rises on the side of my balcony, and if by any chance a beam makes it to the adjacent building, it shouldn’t reflect back towards my direction.

I move to the side and scrutinize the opposite condo.

An elongated shadow swings from thick ropes and kaleidoscopic tints spear through the distance as the brightness creates a hazy rainbow.

The colors end on my door.

The details come together as the shape locks onto the assumption. It’s either a delayed Halloween prank or it’s a strange romantic gesture.

It’s a corpse dangling from ropes around the head; it reminds me of a watermelon net. The impressive part is the glimmering stone in the skull, replacing the face and using the massive gemstone to reflect lights through.

My stomach growls. I didn’t have breakfast, and I do want a doughnut now.

I lift the backpack securely on my shoulders and walk down the hall. The elevator is on the floor below, so it shouldn’t take long.

Pranks are common from the other condo building. Everyone knows that one specific apartment unit has a rowdy juvenile who likes to make everyone’s life miserable. I wouldn’t be surprised if this prank is their work.

As the elevator almost closes, a distant siren bounces around the metal.

I hum disinterestedly and focus on scrolling through the items on the list. The stores should have what I need, but it doesn’t hurt to check if they sell it in the first place.

I’ve been wanting to try a new recipe, one that will make me feel like I’m at home.

The elevator opens and the small lobby is swallowed by gossiping tenants. I manage to dodge them with polite smiles, but I have no intention of stopping to hear what they are talking about.

Pushing the glass door open, I breathe in the fresh air as shining snow blinds me. My travel time can be cut if I walk through the other condo, so I don’t think twice about walking towards the flashing lights.

Police cars blocking off the entrance as people surround the yellow tapes, muttering and speculating as to what happened.

I give a curious glance up the building. Whatever was hanging from there is gone, but I’m not that intrusively curious.

I walk around the crowds and onto the sidewalk. I didn’t make it far when rapid footsteps trudge from behind.

Turning to face them, I keep the composed smile there. I’ve learned to be calm and pleasant if I want to stay away from trouble. There are times, more than I can count, when I have been told to smile because I’m a woman.

 _“You’d look cute if you smiled,”_ someone had once said.

It was a stranger on a bus, and I had a thought of running him over with the wheels.

“Do you live around here?”

I stare at the gun holster before meeting the officer’s face. The strained expression deepens as the white line on her lips hide her clenched teeth.

“What’s your name?” she asks with a moment of hesitation.

“I prefer not giving out my name to strangers,” I reckon as I spare a glance at the building. “And I don’t live there.”

The woman opens her mouth shakily, but she closes them to swallow with conscious effort. I wonder about her odd behavior.

What happened at that building is the police’s business, and I don’t have any information that can help them. I was home last night after Silva so kindly dropped me off with his impatient scowl, but he made sure I was safe and locked away from danger.

“Officer Norine!”

The woman, Norine, snaps her head to the voice. The strain on her neck grows taut as she struggles to shout back to the man. I think he’s her partner.

She hollers to him, voice breaking while waving her hand frantically into the air. Her attention falls onto me again, and her composure doesn’t find its way back to her.

“New on the job, Officer Norine?” I ask with a smile.

She shudders and gives a version of her smile. “Thank you for your time.”

She jogs to her partner, a piece of scarlet hair under the black hat fluttering like a flag of blood. Our eyes meet when she looks over her shoulder, and she whips around to quicken her pace.

Did I offend her?

Shrugging my shoulders, a sense of nonchalance urges my feet to move. The cold is starting to seep into my jeans, and I knew I should’ve worn a thick pair of sweatpants.

Jeans and winter are some of the worst combinations.

A tweak of pain nips on my arm. The bruises Silva inflicted won’t go away any time soon; compression, elevation, and ice remedy did nothing to lessen the soreness.

I swear he’s made of bricks with the momentum aided by his speed during his jog. That was my first night walking down the path, so I assume it is his usual running path since he couldn’t stop in time to not crash into me.

He wasn’t expecting me to be in his way.

I grunt under my breath and knead the aching muscle. I roll my neck to the other side, pulling to stretch out the cramped tension.

More people are starting to gather around. I walk faster while eyeing the tinted car ahead. I can make out two shapes through the dark tint, one is on the driver side and the other is in the backseat.

The man in the back has my undivided attention. It doesn’t take a genius to know that’s a luxury car, so the man is most likely rich with a chauffeur. If the car doesn’t scream value, then the man’s three-piece suit does.

The windows are tinted, but the sun is behind clouds. That lets me see the general outlines, and the closer I get, the more exact my assumptions are.

He’s familiar, but I can’t put my finger on why.

I walk beside the car, looking through the window with unabashed curiosity. I could be looking at my reflection for all he knows.

The sun escapes from the clouds as a trail of condensation trickles down.

A glimpse of iniquitous gray burns through the shade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

The car stays warm while I stare at the crowd of nosy neighbors. I’m around dead bodies every day, so it doesn’t affect me.

The coroner rolls a black body bag into the van, shutting it with a firm slam and securing the lock. A police cruiser taking the lead and escorting the van into traffic while dispersing the crowd effectively.

I glance at the rearview mirror, but Irisa is gone.

She didn’t seem too interested in the corpse hanging across her building. It raises suspicion at her unresponsiveness, but the stubborn part of me defends her bizarre behavior.

She’s in shock with delayed distress, or she didn’t know it was a body. Whatever the excuse, the logical side is losing miserably.

The file on my lap stares back at me. The landlord from last night had more hair than the one in the picture, but they are the same person.

He made a small fortune with his stocks, bought the condominiums, and never worked a day in his life again. Statistical breakdown on the condos’ tenants show the female ratio significantly higher than the men, and most of the women are single.

The insinuation is there.

I toss the folder to the side and open the one on the bottom. A sigh rumbles through my chest at Irisa’s smiling picture.

Yesterday was my second night of restlessness, and it’s her fault. My eyes wouldn’t wander from her picture, so I sat through the night in my office.

I was on a compulsory mission to ingrain her face into my head.

The more I think about it, the angrier I am.

I was going to go through her information, but the distraction was too inexplicably strong.

Even now, there is alluring power in her picture that strays my thoughts. Rather than anger towards my defiant control, I’m fascinated with her in a way that is too grimly perverse.

There were moments where I wanted to wrap my hands around her. To feel her delicate neck physically bruise and count the fading pulses or to hold her under me and spread her legs around my hips.

I don’t know.

She’d be flushing either way, so neither options are terrible.

I close the file and say, “To Peters.”

My driver pulls out to the street, passing the lingering crowd as they keep their attention on the top floors.

I set her file to the side. Her privacy is of no importance, but I like challenges. Her background gives me an advantage. I don’t want it; I want to crush that smile on my own.

Scrolling through my contacts, I find the one I need and make a voicemail to order what I need.

Money is not a problem. I expect the best work, and trivial mistakes will cost them greatly.

The car stops at an upscale area with minimal foot traffic. Being in public every minute are chances of my enemies gaining advantages, yet I’m still here with a frivolous purpose.

_Irisa_ , I think lividly. _That aggravating girl._

An older woman walks up with a stiff smile and greets me, “Hello, sir. What can I help you with?”

Peters is a known boutique store that sells luxury dresses. Negligible knowledge does come in handy, but it’s not how I anticipated it to be used.

It’s not a spacious store. One scan across the floor can see everything and my attention land on a dress that satisfies me.

I put down the order, adding unnecessary things onto the list before I pay. Another mocking laughter chimes in the back of my mind when I glower at the pristine package.

I’m shopping for a fucking dress.

This is ridiculous.

I should’ve just left Irisa at the bottom of the hill. I had a lapse of judgment; I saw those helpless eyes and counterbalanced it with the need to get to her.

She stirred something nefarious inside me, something that surpasses the lives I’ve taken with my hands.

“Sir?”

I don’t waste effort to hide the exasperated sigh and tap a knuckle on the package.

“Ship it.”

She clears her throat. “I apologize, but story policy—”

I hold onto the briefest flicker of unease in her eyes. Her shoulders jump, consciously gathering towards her neck as she takes a step back.

“Y-yes, sir. We will ship it.”

I tell her the address while she writes it down hastily. Her hand trembles too much that some of the words smear together, but the address has enough precision to not be mistaken as the other condo.

“It will arrive by morning,” I say, candid.

The woman stammers like she wants to argue, but she keeps her mouth shut. The extra fee will be given if that’s what she is concerned about.

I’m a morally corrupt man, but I have manners.

I leave after paying. My driver opens the back door while I survey the surrounding businesses, and nothing keeps my attention as expected.

I get back into the car, the remaining heat rises in temperature as the engine rumbles.

“Take me home,” I order with Irisa’s file in my hands.

Her privacy is for my eyes only. No one can get their hands on her information without my permission, especially the details printed on the papers.

I’m getting possessive. I must contain myself before this gets worse.

“Boss, the meeting—”

I shoot a piqued glare into the rearview mirror, startling him with a choked gasp as his hand grips the steering wheel rigidly.

Irisa will never meet those dangerous people. Not if I can help it.

My business works with and employs despicable characters, but it makes the cutthroat business much more gratifying.

Irisa doesn’t belong in my world. She will stay in her little good girl bubble and be as gullible as I allow her to be.

Her blood is mine to spill, her soft body is mine to mark, and her smile is mine to break.

My ride back home is short when I’m stuck with my thoughts. The gate to my estate opens, welcoming the black car into the green scenery as the smooth concrete rolls with the vehicle.

“You’re dismissed,” I say as I leave the car.

My home’s interior design is minimal.

I hate clutter and detest artistry even more. Art is subjective, but they are clumps of messy nonsense in my eyes.

My dislike for modern art can make them self-combust.

I march through my home with aggressive strides, aiming for my office with bated breath and a heavy heartbeat.

When I’m in the privacy of my office, I make a call to permit the deal to go through. One of my crates of missiles had been stolen by a group of underground-gambling vandals on an off-chance they came across my smuggling route.

My million-dollar merchandise is missing, and Irisa’s face is inconveniently distracting me.

“Return my merchandise and kill them,” I command over the phone.

I close the call and toss the device onto the mahogany table. My sources tell me those thieves are trying to sell my products and skip town with the money. I’ve seen their pictures, and they’re too young to be running around with missiles.

On the other hand, I will have no remorse when I slaughter those imbeciles and their family as a reminder to those who want to cross me.

Examples need to be made for people to understand that actions come with consequences. I lost count of how many lives served as collateral damage and a means to an end when someone crosses me.

My business is my empire; I run it with blood-stained, iron fists.

Those who beg for their lives after their wrongdoings are an embarrassment. If greed walked them to me, then they can face their death with pride.

I’m not capable of mercy or sympathy. It hasn’t been with me since I was a child, and I don’t need to go through the trouble of soul-searching.

Emotions are complex and infuriating.

Irisa is a complication on her own. For once in my life, I don’t have a plan on how to deal with her. Not yet anyway.

A gun would be the easiest solution. A hitman hired for accidental death or assassination can be arranged.

I could do it with ease.

A taunting voice laughs inside my head.

I have several hours to take care of my business before I need to ensure that Irisa doesn’t get herself killed in the middle of the night.

_Again_.

I’m not her guardian angel.

That didn’t sound convincing.

I press my knuckles to my temple and sigh with frustration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

“I didn’t order anything.”

Morning sunlight melts into the deliverywoman’s hair. She strains her smile as I refuse to accept the package. It’s a delicately wrapped box, and the indentation on the sides means two layers.

“It has your address on it,” she declares stiffly.

She says it like it means anything to me. On many occasions where my neighbors would put down the wrong apartment unit to ship their packages to me, and I can only hazard a guess that it’s something embarrassing.

“You’re Miss Irisa, right?” the woman asks while reading the label.

My fingers clench around the doorknob, skepticism seeping into my joints as the metal creaks.

“It’s from Mr. Silva.”

The pressure elevates, and the handle outline imprints into my clammy palm as I let go.

“Oh!” I quip with a smile. “I’ll take it.”

The woman nods firmly and offers me a pen to sign on a sheet. She takes the pen when I’m done and bids me a farewell with a hasty breath.

As she scurries off, the elevator opens to a man pushing a giant box out. They try to maneuver around each other, but the box is too big to avoid contact.

I take the handle and close the door when the man’s voice shouts my name. I hope it isn’t my package because I did not order anything, and I sure hope it’s not another _gift_ from Silva.

“One order for Miss Irisa,” he says as the cart smacks onto the ground.

I don’t want to go through the same thing again, so I ask: “Is it from Mr. Silva?”

He blinks harshly, stuttering and glancing down at the shipping label. “Yeah. Can you sign here?”

He thrusts a chunky machine to me, and the screen flashes to a page for my signature.

There is no way I can push this massive package into my home without destroying something on the way. The man offers his assistance, and I allow him inside.

The package is taller than me, and the weight makes me wonder what it could be. I read the label and find the category with a quirk of my lips.

“Can you help me assemble it?” I ask the kneeling man while he snaps the restraints off.

His shoulders jerk and dart his eyes to the box. He hesitates, but he relents with a small nod. It didn’t take long to get rid of the cardboard, and he offers to take it with him to recycle.

What a nice man.

“Thank you,” I say. “Would you like something to drink before you go?”

He waves his hand and scratches the back of his head. “No, thanks. I need to get back.”

I don’t stop him as he hurries to the door, frantically shoving his foot into his shoe and balancing with a hand on the wall.

“Hey, I hear about what happened,” he begins hesitantly, but he decides not to say anything else.

I keep my smile, easing the man’s apprehension. He takes his cart and practically lunges down the hall without looking back.

Did he think my home is haunted?

I lock my door and walk to the kitchen table. The other package needs to be opened, and the delicateness isn’t going to stop my curiosity. I unravel the gift and cock my head with quietened confusion.

It’s a set of earrings and necklace, a pair of heels, and a beautiful dress. The design, materials, and overall quality scream excessive wealth.

Don’t get me started on the fur coat.

What am I supposed to do with this? Wear it? I prefer plain clothing that brings me comfort over wearing status on my body.

Do I sell it? I can get several thousand dollars out of this.

I hold the dress up to the light, noting the fine details and stitching on the sides. A card on the bottom only has a phone number on it. I pick it up just as my ringtone echoes through my apartment.

I place my phone near the card, reading the same numbers, and smiling softly to myself.

I answer the call, “You got me a massage chair.”

Silva utters without missing a beat, _“It’s the same unsightly color.”_

“As what?” I crook a brow as I settle onto the massage chair by the wall.

It provides the best view out the window, and I can imagine myself with a cup of warm drink to pass the day.

“ _Your bruises_.”

I huff with a pout. “Green is not ugly, and neither are my bruises.”

_“Chartreuse green is,”_ he notes steadily.

If the green cushion didn’t have a neutralizing undertone, it would’ve been the most repulsive color I’ve ever seen.

“You have no taste,” I mumble as I scrutinize the buttons on the side.

There are too many functions, but the basic ones are brightened when the power turns on. Color aside, the vibration is concentrated with subtle noises that can lure me to sleep.

Silva goes silent until the rolling spheres knead my legs. _“Be ready at six, not one second late. Dress formal.”_

“What? Why—”

The dial tone gets back to me. I pull the device from my ear in disbelief and put it back to make sure that he did _not_ hang up on me.

He did.

How rude.

I lean back, relishing the push on my muscles as I hum quietly. While I never do strenuous activities, it’s nice to relax my muscles for free.

“Oh?” I chirp with a sly grin. “Is this his way of apologizing?”

If he didn’t run me down the hill, I wouldn’t struggle to sleep properly for the past few nights. Part of me thinks it’s not an apology but rather a mockery.

Searching through articles of a name I typed in my phone, it gives me basic information with some detail on an incident that involved a bank robbery.

“Officer Norine,” I mutter her name, staring at her public image.

She looks neat in her photo: a crisp blue uniform, a prideful hat, and a proud smile. Norine is a rising star in the police department for her ambition, righteousness, and good heart to help those in need despite being in danger.

I believe those are basic qualities of being a police officer, but I wouldn’t dare to belittle someone’s efforts.

Maybe yesterday was Officer Norine’s first encounter with a body.

I smile to myself. A familiar tune circle around me, filling in the silence as I close my eyes. Anticipation rattles my heart against my ribs, and the hollowness muffles all noises.

I can’t wait to see Silva.

Turning off the massaging chair, I get up with a lethargic buzz running through my body. A nap sounds amazing, but I want to maximize my time to be presentable for Silva.

The least I can do is look decent after he invited me. I didn’t get a chance to ask where he’s taking me. The dress is too extravagant to have a home-date, so I can expect to see some influential people around me.

Will it be a date?

I press my knuckles to my lips and smile to myself in the hallway mirror.

“I’m overthinking it.”

The hall mirror doesn’t have natural light, so the bruises on my arm are dulled in discoloration. I do see a difference from before; it’s healing better than I expected. They’re concentrated on the arm where his burly chest rammed into.

It should be easy to hide if I can adjust the fur coat he bought.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr. Silva with his gift.”

Silva is a breath of fresh air to my mundane life. He’s interesting; he exudes elusive yet demanding danger, and he stands with intimidating confidence.

I’d be lying if I don’t admit he’s ruggedly handsome, but it’s his behemoth size that wrenches my stomach.

His eyes are a weapon on their own. He looks at me like he wants to kill me, to eat me alive with a cruel grin.

Somehow, I won’t be surprised if it does happen.

Something is lurking behind those gray eyes and rippling, inked muscles. A monstrosity that I know all too well.

I’m not wrong. He hides his malevolence well, veiled with a façade of irritability that deters away people.

I think I’ve gotten better at reading people, but Silva is difficult to crack. He, however, seems to see through me; the deepest, most guarded part of me feels vulnerable with his calamitous gray eyes.

I don’t know what to do with this bizarre feeling, but it’s not my decision to make.

The choice is snatched by a flush of jubilation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

I will not admit this is a date, but I can’t lie about Irisa’s allure.

She’s delectable with soft skin, a trusting smile, and inquisitive sounds as her small hand sits firmly on the crook of my elbow.

The aroma of bitter wood overpowers her honeyed scent, but it always finds a way back into my lungs as I consciously look for the sweetness.

With her here, I still detest the sultriness. It’s better than being away from her, suffering from a maddening itch, and having my temper run wild.

I sit her down, her dress fluttering around her creamy thigh and dainty ankles. The fur coat swallows her as she grins happily, curiosity clinging to the fluttering movement of her lashes while her attention stays on the illuminated podium.

The VIP section oversees the faceless patrons; there aren’t many here given this is an invitation-only auction.

The range of items is very different, catering to as many patrons as possible to maximize profit in one night. These auctions don’t often happen, but it does stir lots of discreet talks.

An attendant presents an aged bottle of wine. I nod at him, and he unseals the bottle to pop the cork. The unmistakable smell of oak whiff towards me, and it heightens when the swirl of wine pools at the pristine glass’ bottom.

“I don’t like wine,” Irisa whispers with unblinking eyes.

“We’re here for me,” I say.

She leans on her hand, closing the distance and gazing up at me with such innocent wonder.

She asks too enthusiastically, “Are you going to teach me how to be a wine connoisseur?”

“You wouldn’t know counterfeit even if it’s in front of you.” I take the glass, noting the color under the dim lighting as a bright glow illuminates the man behind the podium.

“You’d be surprised,” she retorts. “I have a sharp tongue.”

The first taste coats my tongue, and acidity rolls languidly down my throat with slight burn aftermath.

“Then you have one thing in common with an oenophile.”

Irisa gasps as she taps her small fingers on her lips. The radiance shining through her eyes seizes my heart in a limbo of lunacy, but incredulity takes control in the back of my mind.

Do I need to call my private doctor?

“Aren’t you amazed?” she exclaims giddily.

A dry, reserved reply comes, “At what?”

“Are you always this mean?” she protests, distressed.

“You make me unpleasant.” I swirl the glass, rich crimson gliding bewitchingly in the glass.

The auctioneer taps on the podium for everyone’s attention, clearing his throat over the microphone and greeting our presence.

The auctioneer is not the man behind the auction, so I can expect the items won’t be interesting. I wouldn’t have attended this unnecessary event, but I wanted to test out Irisa’s intuition.

The first item comes; an old painting that’s been missing for several years after someone stole it. Old paintings have a pattern. Being stolen can raise the value, and it’s one of the stupidest business tactics I’ve seen.

Greed and wealth go hand in hand; their symbolic color is green, and both sides benefit from it.

“My landlord just died,” she mutters under her breath as her eyes stay on the wine glass.

I regard her eased expression and narrow on the faint blush on her cheeks. “You’re not scared.”

Her landlord died in an uncanny, almost sadistic way, but the awaited fear isn’t on her face. One might say his manner of death is _creative_.

“Neither are you,” she reckons vaguely, but she moves on, “I didn’t know him.”

Irisa saw me that morning in the car. I’m convinced; while proof is weak, my gut makes it up. She didn’t say anything then or now, and I let her assumptions stay with her as a plaguing companion.

One’s worst enemy is themselves. Thoughts are arsenals.

“You’re not worried,” I indulge her a bit.

“He was unlikable.” She shrugs carelessly as the fur coat slides over her tantalizing shoulder.

“Can I try?” she asks, pointing at the glass of wine and nudging her other shoulder to mine.

I lift the glass and hand it to her wordlessly. She accepts it with graceless fingers while they clasp with mine to bring the rim to her pink lips.

Her little tongue darts through her white teeth, licking the smallest drop of wine and breathing softly over the glass.

My cock twitches, thickening with an unrelenting pulse.

_Fucking hell_ , I think, tormented.

“I still don’t like it,” she mumbles quietly.

Neither of us is paying attention to the auction despite its liveliness. Before my body betrayed my thoughts, I was already distracted by those creamy patches of skin that tempts my teeth to bite on.

She’s not interested in auctions. I’ll make note of that next time.

I halt my off-track thoughts. There won’t be a next time, we’re not—

“Who do you think will take over the condo?” she wonders as she moves away to lean back.

“Someone who will lock the elevator,” I voice promptly.

A faint laugh chimes over the auctioneer’s voice. “Then we can’t meet for our secret randevú.”

“Shame,” I comment.

I peer silently and watch her pout sullenly. The corner of my lips twitches with a deep inhale.

The lights switch to the next item, and the hue of harsh gold dives into her unblinking eyes. Her pout flattens, easing into a neutral form as something akin to vitriolic aversion appears.

“Here we have a rare item!” the auctioneer exclaims. “The star of the night: a rare sweetheart handcrafted by the enigmatic Abbé. It’s young, vivacious, and raw!”

A round of raucous murmur washes over. Irisa’s silence echoes the loudest.

She doesn’t have to understand the true meaning behind the description, but her intuition is sharp.

She thinks they are auctioning a little more than a diamond.

She is correct. The ‘item’ is a handpicked heart from a young, viable ‘donor’ with no medical imperfections.

Irisa curls her hands into tiny fists, her knuckles turning white as the dress wrinkles under the rigid grip. She stands from her seat as the fur coat dips down her bruised arm, and my heart rages against my ribs to force me to rise with urgency.

“Taking things that aren’t yours, selling them for profit, and parading them for décor—I didn’t think you’d be interested in these things.”

Strange words at an unusual time.

Auctions are common, and the items are mostly seized as compensation. Granted, this auction is anything but legitimate. The descriptions are something I’ve heard on many occasions, the prices are astronomical for a piece of furniture, and there are familiar faces of despicable criminals.

I disregard the jump of her smaller arm as I pull the soft fur over her shoulder to cover the bruises. I’m a selfish man, and I am the only one with the privilege to see Irisa vulnerable.

Emotionally and physically.

She’s aware this is not a normal auction, but she doesn’t know what it is that unsettles her.

The brutal truth will give her nightmares.

I settle with: “I won’t bid.”

She mutters agitatedly, “I don’t want to be here. Can you take me home?”

So defenseless, so susceptible to mold into what I want her to be.

I cradle her cheek, stroking the fragile skin, and inching down her neck to simply rest my fingers there. I find a baseline for her pulse, gauging the changes as I lean to her temple.

“You’re afraid,” I intone faintly.

She sniffles and hides her face to my neck. A steady heartbeat under my finger jumps when her lips sweep across my pulse.

Did she smile?

I straighten my posture, assessing her delicate features as it pinches with distraught anguish.

I have decided. She will never step foot into an auction house again.

I couldn't care less about the reason for those tears; I want her to cry from _my_ doing.

Offering her my hand, I conceal the vile glee with the force of my clenched jaw.

She’s a little more exquisite with tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

Silva is the only man who can agitate the sweltering fervor in my blood, curdling it into a thick cluster of frustration.

I didn’t want to see him after the auction; I couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes and not get hit with a sense of provoked delirium. Oddly enough, those complicated feelings appease me.

I’ve never felt anything remotely close to what he can do to me.

I bought a book on the connection between brain chemistry and life experiences, and it took me three chapters to know it was a useless book. Someone’s life experience can’t be explained in detail by someone who has never in the person’s shoes.

Anyone can write a book on deep, profound life insights if it’s generic enough to include everyone. It’s bound to resonate with someone, but I’m not one of them.

The book didn’t ignite the will to live in me like the reviewers had mentioned. I felt neutral, almost bored at the dense content.

The proposed guidance to enlighten my confused thoughts isn’t here; a moth flocking to light as their navigation system, sort of concept.

I blink away the dryness in my eyes as I stare at the lamppost. There were construction noises near my apartment over the week, and lampposts were being installed to brighten the entire running path.

It has Sherlock Holmes vibes.

“What are you doing?”

My heart jolts wildly behind my ribs, singing a tune of thrill and expectation as I spin around to take in Silva’s appearance.

A mash of hazy black dots forms, eating away his face like a burning picture while another black patch forms.

A big hand cradles my jaw to turn my eyes to the other side. He’s warm, virtually searing as he keeps his hold there.

Slowly and gradually, the blackness fades to clear his handsome face of disruptions. A sheen of sweat clings to his hairline, his chest moving rapidly to compensate for the sharp runner’s high, and the thin long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Intricate ink snakes down his thick wrists, interweaving in meaningless patterns to create a tormenting domain for the faint scars. It’s light, and I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t fascinated by his ink.

I wonder what story the scars hold.

His grip tightens as a warning. The golden light cuts into the stormy gray, filling them with an unspeakable halo of wickedness.

“Waiting for you,” I admit softly.

His fingers dig into my throat with a brief press before he lets go. “You have my number.”

“What if you don’t pick up?” I ask, tilting towards the side to relish the fading warmth.

He says with certainty, “I will.”

There are times when my thumb hovers over the dial button unknowingly, and my need to hear his voice grows stronger towards the end of the week-long absence. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I think of him and would instantly be filled with the same indignantly heavy fume in my heart.

It’s the auction’s fault. Silva did nothing wrong. I just hate auctions with a passion.

Would that be called ‘hate’? At the very least, it’s a strong dislike.

“Always,” Silva insists after my silence.

He doesn’t mention anything about the week of radio silence, and I don’t bring it up either. He’s still the same irate, grouchy, and assertive man. Seeing him again restores a sense of normalcy and routine into my life.

They were, by far, the most unsettling days I’ve experienced in a while.

“What’s that?” I ask as I point to a white edge peeking from the collar of his unnecessarily tight shirt.

Tonight’s temperature is one of the coldest in the month, but he’s only wearing a black, tight long-sleeved shirt. He either has a high body temperature or it’s a thermal shirt.

His big hand clasp over his shoulder, squeezing the muscle with a voided expression and adjusting the collar smoothly.

“Did a snowblower kick a rock into your collarbone?” I question with a more curious tone.

That is so specific.

“I was attacked,” he utters nonchalantly as he turns to walk down the path.

I hastily follow after him, dodging the clumps of dirty snow and stumbling from the slippery ground.

“Why?” I squeak abruptly.

A misjudged step glides my foot forward too suddenly. My hands scramble to protect me from the fall, and his muscled arm is right there for me to grab. Silva slows his pace while I find my footing, but my arms still curl tightly around his rigid muscles.

The path was shoveled and salted, but the sudden drop of temperature during the night turn the slushy snow into a sheet of ice.

“Business competition,” he comments dryly.

I blink in bewilderment. “I— _what?_ ”

I’d imagine an uncompromising business meeting ends up as a brawl. I’m biased, and I know Silva would win. His thick muscles exude power, they ripple with violence and lock with concentrated force.

I wouldn’t know if I don’t see it with my eyes.

“Hm,” I note distractedly. “Did you win?”

He angles his eyes down with a silent stare. I’ll take a leap and believe he won.

“Can you sue them for damages too?” I squeeze his burly arm and sink my teeth onto my lip.

He’s big, intimidatingly massive, and so antagonistically mysterious. My heart pounds, rocking my pulse into my ears as it muffles a car speeding past.

“Lawsuits are useless,” he notes.

He doesn’t look like the type to sue even if he has money. His auction house invitation stated a one-hundred thousand entrance fee, and the starting bid on some items was staggering.

I release his arm, regretting it instantly as cold air whips around us. Winter is my beloved season, but my body has a hard time withstanding it.

“Did you miss me?” I blurt through a white puff.

Silva regards me silently. He turns away to focus on the empty path, but his tense features smooth over.

I smile to myself as a heartbeat slithers into my neck. “I did.”

The closest lamppost shines over the glassy ground. I slow my pace, stepping carefully on the ice as my knees tense with precaution.

Silva lifts his big hand, offering silently as he walks confidently over the sheet ice. His hand is warm, rough, and comforting in a way that I didn’t expect from a man whose default expression is irate stoicism.

“What do you do for work?”

He clinches my smaller fingers with a stern grip. “Import-Export business.”

“Oh,” I intone in awe. “I wanted to be a nurse.”

His brow raises with interest.

I shrug offhandedly. “Messy blood isn’t my style.”

He asks, “Hemophobia?”

My nose wrinkles as I hum with contemplation. “Not really. I lost interest in nursing before I knew I didn’t like blood that much. I volunteered once, but I didn’t last long.”

“What interests you now?”

Interest wouldn’t suit the narrative in my head. Also calling it curiosity doesn’t fit either; I think I just want to understand the human brain.

I tell him that much.

“Neuroscience,” he says. “You’d find what you’re hoping for there.”

“I heard it’s a challenging field; you’d see students in tears and maybe some stress, bald spots from loans.”

“Are you unable to receive loans?” he questions tersely.

I shake my head. “Compared to dry science, I find psychology more appealing.”

“Why?”

I return his firm grip with mine as I consciously avoid a gleaming spot on the ground.

I joke giddily, “That way I can get to know you better.”

“You can just ask,” he contends.

The lamppost light shoots into my eyes as I grin. “Would you tell me?”

“Sometimes,” he remarks dryly.

A breath of chagrined air pushes through my lips. I glower spiritedly into his gray eyes, clutching his hand tightly to pass on my exasperation.

Silva returns the heated glare while crushing my smaller fingers between his bigger ones, and the pain forces my fingers to go slack.

My joints grind against each other as he has no intention of letting up his painful grip.

He lets go within my next squeak, leaving me with a sore hand and unsteady balance.

“W-wait!” I yelp, sliding awkwardly after him. “I’m going to fall!”

“Even better,” he persists. “Ice treatment for your hand.”

He turns to continue to walk, but his pace is unhurried.

“How considerate,” I grumble with a frown.

His broad back ripples with his steps, distracting me with the deep lines in his grooved muscles.

Silva taunts, “A ‘thank you’ would suffice.”

I huff resentfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

“Now, now, Silva,” Piero tuts as he inhales a puff of smoke.

The Cuban cigar burns a speckled ring, and the smell lingers in the air. My impatience rises, purring provocation over my taut spine and mimicking lightning currents into my fingers.

I try to be civil, as courteous as I can be while facing the cretin who executed the plan to steal my merchandise.

Piero’s casino is built with sound-proof structures, but the noises still travel through the walls. The confined space does little to ease away my anger, and the smoke frays my already tattered restraint.

I inhale deeply, imagining Irisa’s wide smile to smooth the itch under my skin. Being near her helps to put my belligerent ruthlessness to rest. Even if it’s for a split second, I could still think without the cruel devil on my shoulder.

That is until I envision having my big hand around her small neck. It’d be so easy to squeeze and snap her neck. I want her to beg me, to plead with her sweet voice and teary eyes until I’m satisfied that her little body submits to me.

Nevertheless, I can’t bring myself to end the entertainment she provides.

She makes me _feel_ something other than bloodlust. I don’t know what it is yet, but I will find out even if I have to force it out of her.

“You cost me a quarter billion dollars,” I say bitterly.

The merchandise was recovered a day too late, and the buyer had withdrawn their involvement once the news hit the streets. Their decision is reasonable as I wouldn’t want merchandise that's amid harsh scrutiny either.

Too much liability.

“You know youngsters these days, always taking the initiative!” Piero exclaims as his teeth bite down on his cigar to grin.

Piero and I are not in the same business. He’s a gambling tycoon. He doesn’t make the effort to expand when he believes addiction can bring flowing money.

He doesn’t mess with my territory, and I don’t mess with his; that’s the deal every criminal organization follows.

It’s the silent law.

“You owe me that much,” I remark icily.

His grin falters. “You have your missiles back. No harm, no foul.”

“I can’t sell them,” I say, and the curt tone causes his eyes to twitch.

I feel my intelligence is lowering the longer I speak to this imbecile. The lack of common sense is astonishing. He truly thinks I can resell tarnished merchandise when the scrutiny dies down.

“You traffic weapons, maestro Silva,” he retorts while leaning sluggishly back. “You can use the missiles for your own protection.”

He crackles, his cheap suit sagging messily off his shaking shoulders. “I’m positive the mafia needs more protection than my meager casinos, yeah?”

“Big cojones mean rats to the feds.” He blows a long drag of smoke over his desk and into my face.

I consider myself a fair businessman. I’m reasonable with my prices, and I plan with risks taken into consideration that's beyond my control.

I, however, do not allow traitors to have second chances. Circumstances be damned.

I’m not a forgiving man. I built my empire, so I will protect it with any means necessary.

“I expect a payment, Piero.”

The man smiles and laughs compliantly, leaning towards his mahogany table and slamming his white-knuckled fist down. His teeth grind on the cigar, severing it as it bounces off the table’s edge.

Piero spits the bitten cigar to the side, saliva sailing onto the glossy surface and smoke dissipating with his breath.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he snaps, lips curling with disgust. “Coming onto my territory, demanding—”

His armed goons stand closer, hands playing with the trigger on their guns and turning their nose up high insolently.

_This swine_ , I condemn as I watch the desk blotch with spit.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost time to go meet my little girl. Tonight is even colder, and I don’t want Irisa to stand idly knowing she wouldn’t move unless I’m there.

It’s our implicit routine; I’m not breaking it.

The voice of indulgence jeers in my mind. I push it further back, ignoring the laughter to my avoidance when it comes to the strange fixation with Irisa.

I get up from the chair, towering over the sputtering man as the condescending tone reinforces with his frenzied sneer.

My hand jerks to his head, snatching his skull between my unforgivable fingers and slamming his unpleasant face into the polished wood.

Two simultaneous gunshots scream through the air and flashes of dangerous sparks flare at the corner of my eyes. The sounds are thunderous, but they’re muffled by the hectic gambling under us.

“Do not disrespect me,” I utter, keeping his forehead against the splintered wood.

I let go after a long moment of silence. His head lunges back, slamming against the chair and rocking unevenly by the force. Fear clusters in his eyes, but it’s not gratifying.

Nothing can compete with Irisa’s fear. One taste of it has me addicted. Regardless of how she felt about the auction house, I call it a win in my books.

Piero stumbles out of his chair, backing away with a gasp when his eyes land on the dead bodies near him.

“I will be taking your business and your life,” I declare impassively.

His gaping mouth opens wider as he sputters with an excuse running on his tongue.

I glance at my watch again. I’m going to be late.

“Get rid of this mess,” I order sternly.

Piero’s plea falls on deaf ears.

My bodyguards’ reply comes with a firm confirmation that they’ll do their job. They have been with me the longest, and they know what my expectations are. They wouldn’t survive this long without costly mistakes.

This place will be spotless, body melted down with acid, and security fees will be scrubbed clean.

The news of his death will spread, and tapping into the gambling business will be met with resistance. Piero was one of the most influential in this field, but he’s small fish compared to the criminal empires that I have cordial relationships with.

I wouldn’t outright shoot another crime boss without exhausting attempts to come to a compromise. Killing them would alter the peaceful balance.

A retaliation war is the last thing I want to waste time on when I can be instilling control over my little girl.

“Don’t follow me,” I order tersely before leaving the smothering room.

It reeks of cigar smoke, stale alcohol, and shoe polish. The smell alone is depleting the casino.

What a tasteless business move.

All the more reasons to stand close to my little girl and take in her delectable scent.

I smooth a hand down my suit as I search for my phone, my eyes never leaving the flurry of rapid falling snow.

I have told her countless times to not put herself in preventable, dangerous situations. She doesn’t listen despite being spoken to with a threatening timbre. I refuse to _consciously_ accept how accommodating I’m with her.

I go out of my way to get to our spot before her just so she doesn’t get fucking kidnapped. If anyone is going to snatch her away, it’s me with a plan to chain her to my bed.

It’s a sight that my dream indulges me with. Her fragile wrists held together with my tie, naked with her soft and flushing body begging for my touch, and my fat cock sitting heavily inside her tiny, cum-soaked pussy.

I click my tongue with impatience as her phone rings into voicemail.

She always answers my call; cooking, outside, or even in the shower. It doesn’t make my filthy predicament better, but the change in our routine doesn’t sit well with me.

The mafia makes me cynical about all changes.

I call once more, but it goes straight to voicemail this time. Either she turned off her phone or she rejected the call.

I’m confident that she did not reject it, so that means she didn’t turn off the device either.

Now that leaves the chance of someone having her phone or it got broken at an inconvenient time.

A riled growl hisses through my clenched teeth as I stalk out of the rowdy casino. The worst-case scenario eases into my mind as I start the car’s engine; she’s waiting for me by herself, gets ambushed and taken away, and—

Negativity won’t do me good. I will find her. If she’s not harmed, then we’ll have very stern words.

If this turns out to be a misunderstanding, then her ass might not survive my palm.

“Stubborn little girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

The light flickers hauntingly above me as I walk towards my apartment. A dog’s bark echoes from the other condominium, and my eyes instinctively go searching for the sound only to focus on the same floor that hung the landlord.

Life is a life no matter how despicable they are. The deceased landlord was a life, but he never gave me a good impression. From the beginning, he wanted to get into my pants for mutual benefits.

I don’t see how I can benefit from him.

His bizarre death looms over everyone’s heads. I don’t blame them for being scared to step out of their apartments. I wouldn’t want to either, but I think volunteering at a hospital desensitized me to death on some level.

Patients’ circumstances are different than a murderer hanging their victim by the neck for something akin to modern art, but it’s still a death.

The biggest reason why I can walk out of my apartment in the morning and at night is because of the undercover police cars around the block. This unnatural death hit the news with conspiracies taking over.

The killer would be a fool to come back here.

Is it because I have a bigger heart than others?

Truthfully speaking, it has more to do with Silva than anything else. Ever since meeting him, his presence takes a lot of space in my head.

In a way, he’s protecting me even if he’s not physically there.

Shrugging at another dog’s barking, I unlock the deadbolt and twist the knob. The neighboring couple’s arguing voices breach through the thin walls, screaming at each other with furniture scraping across the hardwood floor.

They’ve been bickering more than usual, especially after the landlord’s body was found. I also know that woman pays her rent with sex, and her husband doesn’t care as long as they aren’t doing it when he’s home.

He works night shifts, so it works for them.

The things I learn through thin walls are ridiculous; I probably know more about them than they know about themselves.

My apartment door lodges, taking me by surprise as I turn awkwardly with one shoe stuck on my foot. A big hand grips the edge while a pale sliver of moonlight jabs into my eye, and a familiar scent whiffs into my home.

Silva stands with an intimidating scowl, anger tarnishing the ferocious gray while a heated glare sets in place.

“Yes?” I ask, gawky and slow.

Under dim lights, he’s still a very attractive man. A big, strong, angry man with an expensive suit and commanding demeanor. The tailored suit fits his massive frame flawlessly, the stitching following the grooves of his hidden muscles that fill the sturdy fabric.

He yanks the door open and walks onto the shoe mat as he flips on the light. It blinds me unexpectedly, but it doesn’t hurt.

The brightness does no justice to how utterly handsome he is. Something about a suited man riles my stomach.

A loud click of the lock snaps me out of my stupor.

“You broke into my home,” I say with shock.

It’s not technically breaking in, but it’s close enough for my stumped mind to comprehend.

He disputes, “I bought this condominium; I have every right to be here.”

My tongue dries at his words. I press my lips together incredulously, and I question the entirety of it.

“You bought this place?” I repeat, “As in you’re the landlord?”

“Owner,” he says.

I shake my foot to get rid of the stubborn shoe while shouldering off the big coat, courtesy of Silva. It doesn’t take a genius to know the material is expensive, hand-tailored, and void of harsh chemicals.

That fur coat too. What am I supposed to do with it?

Well, I can use it to cuddle on the couch. It’s soft, and it is mine.

“Why?” I utter warily.

“To stop you from leaving at night.”

His nonchalance pinches my heart. I narrow my eyes cynically at him, judging the nonexistent emotions on his deceitfully handsome face.

He shrugs off his suit jacket and chucks it onto the coatrack. I’m positive that’s not how expensive clothing is treated.

“That sounds ominous and illegal imprisonment.” I step back away from him, but he closes the distance easily.

The bag of pain medication crinkles, reminding the pain on my jawline to throb with my pulse. I drop the bag on the dining table and spin to face Silva.

“Every time you leave at night, you get hurt,” he notes with a deeper timbre in his voice.

He cups my jaw with surprising gentleness, stroking the inflamed skin with a finger as his eyes trace the discoloration down to my neck.

I realize I’ve gotten more bruises after meeting Silva than before.

This man is cursed, and he’s breathing his bad luck onto me. It doesn’t stop my heart from quivering with blissful glee.

“Not all the time, just the ones when you’re not here,” I say as my trembling smile stretches.

He retorts collectedly, “Hence the condo.”

I gasp with a chiming laugh. “I didn’t know you cared so much about me!”

I clasp my hands around his wrist, fingers mindlessly searching for his pulse for mine to mimic. A strong throb sinks deeply into my fingertip, swaying the balance in my breath as I hiccup suddenly.

“I care about the bruises that aren’t my work,” Silva refutes as his thumb digs into my skin, pressing harder on the discoloration as tears spring to the burning rims of my eyes. 

“Stop,” I whine breathlessly. “It’s trying to heal!”

A tremor wrecks my finger as I try to take his big hand away, but he holds on tighter and rougher than before as he rubs harsh circles along my jaw. His other fingers loop my neck, securing a fixed hold to stop my squirming.

“I’m replacing it with my mark,” he snaps curtly, “Stay still, little girl.”

Slyness creeps towards the corners of my lips. His warm hand relinquishes the crude caressing to rest his thumb on the aching skin.

“You’re making my heart go wild, and my face’s really hot,” I jibe quietly.

The presence of his idle finger above my pulse competes with the aloofness in his stormy gray eyes.

Well, that just got painfully awkward because my heart _isn’t_ swooning like I made it seem.

I ask, my voice cracking embarrassingly, “Want dinner together?”

Silva nods firmly, but he’s definitely doubtful.

I hope I don’t give him food poisoning.

His hand clenches around my neck tighter, so I stop trying to move away until he lets go.

“Who did this?” he demands through a seething sneer.

“I don’t know,” I concede, wincing at his wordless reprimand that _it’s not enough_.

I continue reluctantly, “I was going to buy a book before the store closes, but then someone took my money.”

“A robbery,” he says as his caressing thumb reminds me of the bruise on my jaw. “Is that why you didn’t answer my calls?”

“I didn’t see his face,” I mutter, avoiding his judging gaze. “He pushed me and took the book too.”

“Why are you concerned for a book?” he asks, a genuine question filled with anger. “You’re hurt; that should be your concern.”

His hand leaves my throbbing jaw and clamp around my neck with a touch too dangerous to ignore. It’s not tight. It’s just an unassuming restraint that allows both his fingers to feel a heartbeat simultaneously.

“That book is important,” I admit pitifully.

“Why?”

My tongue darts out to wet my dried lips. “It’ll teach me how to talk to people.”

He’s silent, and I don’t blame him. I never thought I’d buy a book on social communication too. I’m not good with people, so I want to get better at fitting in.

“I’m talking to you now—”

My wretched whine squeaks. “ _More_. So, you can talk to me more.”

“Greedy little girl,” he jeers angrily, “This is not enough?”

I’m selfish; I’ve been this way for a long time, and I’ve been told it needs to be corrected. I’m living my life in a way that makes me comfortable and free to do things that make me contented.

“No,” I say.

It’s not enough. Just talking to him will never be enough. I want all of him.

He hums as a spark of manic glee circles the fickle gray in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

I stayed the night. I don’t know what overcame me, but I wasn’t going to leave her alone.

Those bruises irk me, ridicules my inability to protect her, and rouses livid retaliation to quash the cretin who harmed her.

It’s only a matter of time before I find whoever hurt Irisa.

The city has cameras everywhere, the man has nowhere to hide. Even if the police have a copy of the video feed, it’s not a difficult hurdle for a hacker to break into.

I don’t trust the police, and I have legitimate reasons not to. Their file on me can implement the death penalty or life imprisonment. I hope they don’t underestimate my preference for freedom.

I can’t keep an eye out for Irisa if I’m rotting behind rusted bars.

When did I become her protector?

“Good morning,” Irisa mumbles, blinking away the sleep haze.

She looks lost, and that strings together a protective instinct I didn’t know I was capable of having.

My eyes linger on her creamy bare thighs as I curl my hand around the mug of disgusting coffee to stop the desire to touch.

It’s flavorless, but it’s all I could find in her bare minimum apartment. Privacy is not a concern for me to breach; I want to know things about her that not even her closest friends know.

Does she have them?

I didn’t see a single picture. Not of friends, family, or even herself.

The walls are bare, a shelf storing books on the psychology of humans, and one set of necessities in the kitchen. If I thought my home was minimalistic, then her apartment must be an interior catalog.

“Breakfast?” she asks while scratching the dull redness on her jaw.

I set the mug down and stand from the chair. The book on how to find the journey of happiness abandons beside the steaming mug.

My spine cracks as my tense muscles stretch lethargically. The sofa was uncomfortable, but it’s not the worst I’ve managed.

I tower over her, shielding the sun from her eyes as she squints tiredly. The littering bruises call for me to trace the slight quiver and find a way to touch those pretty lips.

A moment of weakness swallows me as my knuckle grazes the thin skin, nudging her face to the side to examine the discoloration better.

“Still hurts?” I question.

She doesn’t answer right away. That silent moment is short but also painstakingly long with too many rapid changes on her face. It starts with a blank canvas, a second of remembrance, a swift rise of complicated expressions, and then her face relaxes with a sweet smile.

That harrowing moment confuses me.

Everything was normal, but my gut refuses to accept it.

“Not so much,” she says softly. “The ice helped last night.”

The bruises on her arm are gone while the one on her delicate jawline is beginning to fade. Whoever hit her didn’t have adequate force to give it the severity that mine did.

I almost feel proud. _Almost_.

I’m not _that_ much of a sadist.

“Was I snoring last night?” she asks abruptly.

“No,” I say.

I didn’t sleep. The thin walls amplified her neighbors’ arguing, and I heard every word. They’re worried that the cops think they’re the suspects for the landlord’s demise.

Death is common to me, and the way he died doesn’t scrape the level of creativity hired killers have.

With the right price, there will always be someone interested.

Irisa grins sheepishly. “I never had anyone over, so I don’t know if I snore or not.”

That clarifies her lack of friendships.

“Your parents don’t visit?” I prob casually.

She shakes her head and shrugs. I nearly miss the quickest flash of withdrawn unease from her body language.

This is a sensitive topic. I make a note to use it against her later.

“You’re the first one to be here,” she whispers shyly with a delightful blush.

I’m the _only_ one who is allowed to be in her home, to see her barely dressed, and relish on the unspoken power I have over her. 

“I expect it to be that way,” I order candidly.

“But—”

A knock startles her as her body flinches. My head snaps to the door, staying silent as I wait for another knock.

Irisa shivers violently before shaking it off. She takes one step, and I clasp a hand around her small wrist to drag her to me.

A woman’s voice creeps through the door, calling for Irisa and knocking again to emphasize the urgency in her tone. The woman identifies herself as “Officer Norine” while mentioning the purpose of her presence.

“We need to speak to you about—”

An elongating shadow breaches the balcony with an arm-shadow waving frantically.

I shove Irisa backward, forcing her to stumble as I lunge at her smaller body. Clamping a hand over her mouth, I break her fall by turning her body to let mine take the brunt of the hit against the wall.

It’s a dull thud, so whoever is casting a shadow doesn’t hear it.

I keep her between my legs, encasing her as I draw them close to avoid the approaching sunlight. The looming cloud doesn’t come fast enough to block the sun from casting our shadows, so I’ll have to improvise.

Her muffled whine forces me to hold her tighter, crushing her pliable body to mine as I watch the slightest change in our shadows. The sun hits her little toes; I shift her leg over mine and press a knee inside her thigh.

She squeals with a strong tremble as I constrict my arm around her waist, shoving the noises back into her throat while listening closely to the voices outside.

Her hot little pussy press snugly on my thigh, squirming and wetting through her white panties. My big cock rubs on her supple ass, thickening at the base as it throbs with gluttonous desire. I push her ass further down on my cock to let the heat of her wet panties smear onto my trousers.

It’d be so easy to unzip my pants, pull her frilly panties aside, and sink my fat cock inside her tiny hole. I know she’d be drenched, and her little pussy would slurp greedily for my cum.

“Miss Irisa!” a man’s voice calls from outside the balcony. “We need a word!”

She mewls wantonly in my hand, sagging against my chest with weak limbs as her dripping cunt twitches over my sensitive cock.

I turn my nose towards her temple and breathe in her honeyed scent.

The silhouette retreats slowly as if it’s hesitating whether to jump over the railing or not. I plan on moving my little girl into a secured home and have her under surveillance. Hidden cameras will be the least of her worries.

Irisa snatched my attention, crippled my self-control, and dare to look so innocently at me. It’s her fault for digging herself a deep hole in my heart; she’s in my life now, and leaving is not a choice.

Unless it’s out of my cold, dead hands.

Irisa will be exposed to the dangers of depravity and violence. I’m her first contact, and I’ll teach her just how morally corrupted is the head of the Silva Family.

She twitches as my breath fans over her vulnerable neck. I sink my teeth, biting the soft skin harshly to brand my ownership over her.

Her fidgeting body locks in my arms while the hand around her mouth forces her head to tilt. Disrupted mewls tumble through my fingers, Irisa shudders just when a trail of hot tear runs down my finger.

It’s a shame I can’t see her tearful face yet.

I relent the bite and let her breathe properly again. She leans forward, palms supporting her weight while a wheeze shakes her frame. Irisa coughs several times and fights the noises in her throat.

The cops are gone, so she can be as loud as she wants.

I slide the same hand under her chin to cradle her neck. She flinches with a whimper, but she doesn’t get the mercy that she hopes for.

I nudge her chin up as her back falls onto my chest again. Tears cling to her lashes and lips trembling with indignant, she glares sullenly to strike against the desire running in her eyes.

She’s endearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

He’s doing it on purpose. Hot circles on my inner thigh, trapped grip around my neck, and a pinning gaze—I move, he restricts; the warning can’t be clearer.

His fingers give mindless traces on my thigh and nudge the edge of my panties.

I never thought this would happen. How did it go from a police officer knocking on my door to this?

“Wait—”

“Quiet,” he hisses into my ear, his breath hitting my throbbing temple. “Do you want to be caught?”

My cheeks burn as embarrassment seizes my heart. The soaked panties scrape roughly over my swollen clit, sticky juices dripping out of my tiny hole as his calloused fingers clamp down the quivering muscles.

My knees jerk, but his hand stops them from slamming close. Silva chuckles, so scornfully soft that a thick drop of slick slithers through my twitching cunt.

His hand suspends between a patch of quivering skin and a pair of drenched panties. He’s waiting, judging with a faint growl in his wide chest as it tingles down my spine.

“Miss Irisa? Are you in there?” the woman, I recall Officer Norine, shouts through the front door.

The loudness startles me, and my thighs break away his suffocating hold to close them. It drags his big hand, trapping and forcing those strong fingers to slip into my underwear. My squishy folds rub against his hand, smearing glossy slick on his skin.

He slaps the other hand over my mouth, shoving the moan deep into my throat. A conscious effort is made when I stop my hips from grinding on his palm to bring relief to my sensitive clit.

“What are you doing?” he questions gravely.

The ambiguity behind his words renders me helpless in his arms as it confuses me. He inches down to drag his hot tongue over the stinging bite, and successfully eviscerating the humiliation in my churning stomach.

My sodden pussy pulses with mortification.

“I don’t want to hear a sound from you,” he commands threateningly.

His words make it through the buzzing ears too late; his fingers are already petting my soft folds.

I’m wet, and I could feel the easy slide of his finger flicking the sensitive bud. Kaleidoscopic stars flare behind my closed eyes. Scalding heat seeps into my back as his chest rumbles with a laugh.

I swallow dryly with uncertainty looming over me, counting the seconds between hesitant heartbeats as his big finger circles my puffy clit.

“My dirty little girl,” he whispers.

A longing mewl throttles in my throat, soft like it’s not supposed to be there yet it fits in my mouth.

His fingers pinch the slippery bud, teasingly rough to coerce an unwilling shiver to dive between my thighs. Another thick drop of slick rushes through my slightly parted folds, my leg perching over his strong thigh and spreading further when he shifts.

His big cock throbs at the bottom of my spine. I remember noticing just how big he is by feeling him on my back, and part of me doesn’t want to think about it.

Anticipation trembles in my stomach, climbing with twisting steps as the coil tightens more. The pad of his finger strokes stickiness down my slit, abandoning my sodden clit to circle the tight ring of my leaking hole.

The way my body trembles weakly in his arms, whining for his attention and relishing the sparks of pleasure riding under my skin—I don’t tell him to stop.

Silva pushes his fingers further inside my panties, spreading my sopping folds with cruelness to scrape the abrasive panties onto my aching clit.

My lashes flutter, and a weightless effort overcomes the lethargy as they close to enjoy the pleasure. Pain litters over my lips as my teeth sink into the side of my cheek with the help of his hand over my mouth to stop a broken moan.

He taps mischievously on my little hole, sliding in embarrassingly smooth as salacious squelches muffle around the thick digit. It’s an odd but gratifying sensation as my stomach burns, heightening the shivers down my spine.

He doesn’t move, just letting my pussy suck on his finger and drooling over his knuckles. The squishy muscles coil tightly as if it’s his thick cock, trying to milk for his cum to smear on my quivering walls.

A daring curl nudges the fingertip to a spongy spot, forcing a loud keening noise to escape my stifled throat.

My hips rut to his hand, dirtying it with viscous juices.

For a moment, I imagine him leaning over me with his fat cock fucking my sore pussy until it’s a frothy mess of cum.

He drags the heel of his palm over my neglected clit, pushing the bud down heartlessly, and grinding it insistently to bring me closer to the edge.

My little hole squeezes his finger, slurping strongly and pulsing around the persistent digit as it shoves fervidly against the delicate, squishy spot.

“What do you want, little girl?” he asks, his voice purring mockery into the shameful red on my cheeks.

“I—” I croak pitifully as a teardrop breaks from my fluttering lashes. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” he echoes with a musing hum.

Maybe it’s the shame of wanting to end the tortuous pleasure, but I murmur impulsively, “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” he sneers as he slips another finger inside, stretching the tiny hole with unexpected tightness.

There’s a second of stillness where everything on his body freezes before dread knocks on my temple.

He’s smiling.

“Untouched,” he notes rather calmly.

I turn away from him, hiding the indignity into my shoulder as he fucks my pussy with a nonchalant spread of his fingers. A noticeable glop of slick slithers out, and my cunt spasms with humiliation.

“You’re filthy for a virgin, Irisa,” he reckons while widening my legs lewdly with a nudge of his thigh.

My drenched underwear grinds remorselessly on my clit. My thighs twitch tautly, soreness walking down my useless legs as one dangle over the sun to create a disgraceful silhouette.

“I’m not,” I mutter defiantly, but my body jolts vehemently.

His fingers sink deeper into my puffy pussy, curling up to the squelchy muscle to snap the coil in my stomach.

The hand around my mouth tilts my head back, and his darkened gray eyes pierce into mine as intimidation crackles at the corners of his lips.

Faster and rougher, he fucks my drippy cunt with stringy slick sliding down my ass. His taunting gaze leverages my heart into a limbo of neediness, and the pressure in my stomach splinters.

My eyes slam shut, but a stridently painful pinch around my jaw snaps my eyes open. He murmurs soft praises while grinding the heel of his palm down, crushing my little clit with tormented devotion to cum.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, and it’s a strange question.

Silva sounds indulged, elated even.

He snatches his fingers from my drooling hole. His wet fingers catch my swollen clit and _pinches_.

Violent tremors sail under my tight skin, hedonistic laughter rings in my ears, and black dots splash in my blurry vision. Tears roll down my temple, distorting the delight on his handsome face.

My empty pussy spasms as heavy disappointment skips between my tired bones.

His cock twitches on my spine, and my throat answers with a whine. He pets my sore clit with gentle fingers; I can’t help the anticipation for a rough stroke as he did before.

“You’re not ready yet, but rest assure you will be.”

My vision refocuses on his face, and the devil’s smile fixes intoxicated trepidation into my heart.

Something appalling shifts dangerously in me—matching the mania in his possessive gaze.

He breaks the stare while taking his hand from my ruined panties. Webbed cum gluing to his thick fingers as he pulls them apart, toying with the stickiness and ridiculing me with the sun’s golden halo through the glistening cum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

I thought she was the most beautiful when she was crying. Then she showed me that delightful flush on her face, the desperate squirming, and the humiliation in her eyes when she saw the mess she made on my hand.

I’m not displeased to be proven wrong.

At that moment, she was priceless.

“You’re moving,” I say to her back.

The tips of her ears are still red as she freezes. Wind pushes the aroma of brunch to me, and the iciness kisses my collarbone through the loose tie.

Irisa turns around with a glowing face and avoids my eyes. We didn’t talk about what happened in the morning, but her little body is too honest. The wary, embarrassed flinches when I would get near is playing with the fire in my stomach.

My cock stays hard after hours of simply observing her. I wanted to make her uneasy because I can, and she can’t stop me from watching her cum dry on her thighs in streaks.

I didn’t permit her to clean up, and she is a good girl for not defying me.

“Pack your things,” I add offhandedly.

She scratches her neck gawkily. “Why? Where am I going?”

“With me,” I say, “You’re moving in with me.”

“No,” she declines, and the conviction in her voice causes my thoughts to halt.

I know there is a fighter in her. It comes out at different times with different degrees—this time is more compelling. That’s another thing I like about her; she doesn’t back down when she dislikes something, and she lets me know.

“It’s not safe here.”

Irisa nods. “I know. The landlord was too cheap to get cameras.”

She hiccups as realization color her face with a scarlet hue. Her small hands gesture wildly, her words failing to latch onto the meaning.

“I’m not like that!” she blurts. “I’m not like my neighbor; I don’t do that with my landlord, and I pay my rent in cash! _Cash, those green papers!_ ”

My lips lift at the corner. “That’s what cash is.”

“I’ll keep paying too—”

I take a step, and she moves one back. “You can still pay, but it will be for a different residence.”

Her brows curl in confusion. I take her distraction to close the distance and splay my fingers on the curve of her hips.

“I like this apartment,” she mumbles.

I don’t. There isn’t enough space, it’s rundown, and I hate the lack of security. I want her to be under my supervision, and keeping her in the dark would only serve her good.

The neighbors are questionable, and the condo was swarmed by cops before. It’s getting too much foot traffic.

I’m exposing myself to unnecessary risks.

Irisa tilts her head, her soft hair falling over her shoulder. The tinge of fingerprints decorates the sides of her neck like a collar.

She snaps her fingers at her revelation. “Did you buy a new condo just for me?”

“No.”

Playful excitement cascades down her face, turning it into a small frown. “Oh.”

“It’s an estate,” I reveal.

“Return it! I can’t pay rent to an estate.” Her hand waves frenziedly, emphasizing her point.

I squeeze her hip and bring her to my chest. She grunts in my shirt, grumbling softly under her breath before shaking her head vigorously. Irisa tips her head back, gazing rebelliously into my eyes.

“You don’t have to pay for anything if you don’t want to.”

This condo isn’t important to me; neither is the money I spent on it. When I bought it, I hadn’t planned on our relationship would take a sharp turn so quickly.

I wouldn’t call what I want to do to Irisa “courtship” because the monstrosity in me has no room for trivial infatuation. The feeling, the sensation that I feel when I look at her, touch her supple body, and hear her call my name—it’s too deep for fondness, but it’s not deep enough for adoration.

Adoration isn’t something I know about, so that’s an unfair comparison.

She grimaces, her brows pinching while disbelief stays in her eyes. “That’s not how renting works.”

“That’s how the _owner_ works,” I counter like a tyrant.

She’s moving into her new home whether she likes it or not. If it means destroying this building and rendering everyone homeless, then so be it. The lack of morality lets me do it with a mere command.

People’s misfortune doesn’t guilt me. I wouldn’t be in the weapon trafficking business if measly morals bother me, and I’ve learned that I thrive on the misery.

I enjoy their pain.

Irisa pushes on my chest, and a heartbeat fights back against her hand. I refocus on her pinched expression as she mutters reluctant sounds.

“I have no use for that much space,” she whispers.

I squeeze her hip tighter to stop her from gaining more space between us. I want to take in her honeyed scent and let it sit in my lungs for as long as possible. Some mix with mine; it’s better than anything I’ve smelled.

My hand inches up her waist as she shifts to the side. “Leave it vacant. I don’t care.”

“That’s a waste,” she mutters with a startled laugh when my advancing fingers tap on her ribs.

I propose a little too adamantly strong, “I can move in.”

“No,” she cries hastily while shaking her head. “I like my independence; you can’t judge me when I do something embarrassing.”

“I judge you now,” I remark dryly as I lift my hand to press the palm to the small of her back.

Her silky hair is distracting.

“On what?” she challenges.

The frown stretches over her pink lips, and the words disappear from my tongue. I look to the tip of her ear and note the rosiness as a moment of interference.

“These stains,” I taunt as I wedge a thigh between hers.

Her weak legs clamp around mine, doing the exact opposite of what she wants as she fidgets clumsily.

She bristles, fascinatingly mortified, “You wouldn’t let me!”

Her tiny fists shove my chest, but I’m stronger than her futile efforts. She will have to deal with her humiliation in front of me while I relish the warmth of her body.

“What’s stopping you from defying me?” I ask as I hold her close and dip my face onto the smooth column of her throat.

Her arms raise instinctively, but she hesitates heavily before slowly wrapping them around my waist. I want to say it’s my imagination, but those trembling hands fist my shirt like a lifeline.

She stammers into my chest, “I don’t want you to be angry.”

She’s afraid. Why? I have never laid a hand on her. The time I propelled her down the hill doesn’t count. That was truly an accident.

“Why don’t you try it?” I test with a vile grin against her neck.

I misjudged how much my back would ache from this position, but taking in a deeper, more concentrated breath of her scent compensates for it.

“Making you angry?” she sputters in shock, “What if you try to kill me?”

“You’d be dead.”

She would _not_ be dead. I didn’t spend this much effort and time on her just to make her disappear. Her definition of vanishing is different from mine. I want her away from the public, and it has more to do with my choice of career than possessiveness.

Somehow, my words have very little assurance.

She nudges my face away with her shoulder. “You’d really do that? Kill me, I mean.”

I refute, “What do you take me as, a brute?”

She props her chin on my chest, eyes widening innocently. She believes what she said.

“Just don’t ship me off with your cargos,” Irisa jokes with a toothy grin.

I clinch the nape of her neck, pressing my fingers temptingly hard on her delicate skin.

“To where?” I chide spitefully, “You belong with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

The busy café’s ambiance hits differently when it’s the evening. It’s bustling with college students rather than office workers since the café is located between an Ivy League university and a perfect view to capture picturesque sunsets.

While the sun sets faster during winter, the café’s placement can let people see the sunset longer.

I’m not a college student, but I fit into the young, trendy vibe effortlessly.

I sip the warm drink, savoring the sweetened flavor while watching people move along their busy schedules. It’s fun to pinpoint things on them just by watching.

Couples’ quarrel on the other side of the window is free entertainment.

I don’t come here often. It’s far from the condo, so I tend to stay here all day when I have a chance.

“Hello,” someone greets.

Officer Norine stands with a cup of iced Americano and gestures vaguely over the empty chair.

“Is this seat taken?”

I shake my head, opening my palm to offer the seat. She sits and puts down the drink by the window for the light to enhance the tawny hues.

An uneasy silence wraps around us, and it fights with the lively café. Laughter and light conversations filter through the peace, alleviating the awkwardness while Officer Norine prepares herself.

Her lips purse, thinning into a white line as her knuckles turn ashen.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” she says. “I want to interview you on the death of your landlord.”

I smile tightly. “You can call or find me at home.”

Officer Norine takes out her notepad and a small recorder. “My partner and I went to your apartment the other day, but you weren’t home.”

I was right. It was Officer Norine and her partner who tried to climb over the neighbor’s balcony. I give props to his dedication to talk to me.

“Sorry, I was running errands,” I say as I bring the mug to my lips. “Must have missed you.”

“Do you mind?” she says, motioning to the recorder.

I shake my head. The bright sunlight bleeds into her hair and highlights the glistening snow. Everything about her disrupts the calm atmosphere in the café, whether if it’s her job or her hair.

“Not on the clock, officer?” I note from her plain clothing.

She chuckles and pushes the pen’s spring. “Everyone should feel comfortable when being interviewed, and I could tell you were wary of me when we first met.”

“I see,” I mumble.

I swear she ran away from me like I was contaminating her oxygen. That was rather rude, but I chalked it up to my overactive imagination.

“Would you state your name for me?” she asks as the recorder begins with her pen hovering over the white notepad.

She jots down what I said along with some personal information for future contact. Officer Norine goes straight to the point, inquiring about the day when my landlord was hanging from the eighteenth floor.

Or is it considered seventeenth because his body was swinging on the floor below?

Eh, troublesome details.

“Can you tell me what you were doing on that day?” she probes. “Walk me through it.”

She’s doing the steps that are for detectives, but I applauded the groundwork and passion for justice.

“I was leaving my apartment to run errands, assumed it was a juvenile prank from the teens, and then you stopped me when I was walking away.”

She scribbles chicken scratch, and I could only make out “prank” on her penmanship.

It was a normal day, just like any other.

“So, you didn’t know it was a dead body?” she tests, incredulous.

“I didn’t,” I confirm. “Those kids always pull pranks; I just thought it was another one.”

“Why aren’t you afraid now that you know a killer is still out there?”

I contemplate on her words and play mine smartly. There are too many criminal cases being exposed for forced confessions and police twisting witness statements.

“I don’t want to admit it. Once I accept it, then I’m going to live in fear as long as the killer isn’t caught.”

Officer Norine is not convinced. She’s watchful and assessing the tone in my voice. She’d make a good detective if she can solve this crime.

I like that passionate search for the truth.

I add as an afterthought, “I learned it from a psychology book.”

“Oh?” she voices plainly, “A student?”

I stir the lukewarm drink with a clean spoon. The small and dainty utensil clanks on the mug as I watch the swirling content. It doesn’t look appetizing anymore.

“No,” I say. “I just have a budding interest in that topic for now.”

She nods but refuses to let the topic die. “What do you do for a living?”

I wave my hand and laugh. “It’s not that interesting.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles, taken aback. “I like Psychology too. I was going to ask you about some books to read.”

I’m not like Silva who can read what’s on people’s faces. Even then, I have trouble believing she’s interested in book recommendations when the purpose of this ‘chance’ meeting is based on an unsolved crime.

She asks about a book, one that I have on my bookshelf and has been opened many times. It’s a valuable book with digestible details.

My smile twitches, hindering on the line of suspicion and courtesy.

I like my privacy. I tend to be paranoid, so this just might be a coincidence that she mentioned the book.

While it’s not rare, it is the first edition with ten other editions after.

“I have the same book!” I exclaim over the smooth jazz.

Her smile widens to match mine. “It’s a damn good book! The fundamental evolution of human emotions get broken down to the core, and I feel like I can see through liars.”

She backtracks as her thumb bends her index finger to pop the joint. “Not saying you’re a liar or a suspect.”

I chuckle, waving off her concern of offending me. “It helped me in a different way. I’m able to meet new people and make friends with them too.”

“Sorry for prying, but you sound nice. So, why do you need help making friends?”

That’s a childish wonder, and I don’t think she notices how much of her curiosity is making her look like a fool.

“I’m not good with people,” I concede as I lean back. “Would you like to be friends?”

Her shoulders jerk violently with an unnatural glow casting under her eyes. Chaotic dread rises into the fine lines of her lips and lingers on her ashen face.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she questions with a despairing tremor in her voice.

Officer Norine clears her throat immediately to discard the previous question. “Apologizes, this shouldn’t have turned casual.”

She promptly brings out a picture of Silva from a small pocket in her notepad.

“Do you recognize him?”

“What did he do?” I counter back calmly.

She also doesn’t relent. “You know him.”

Officer Norine takes out another photo of us together. Nothing scandalous. He’s escorting me into his car to drive me to see the new estate that I didn’t ask for.

It happened yesterday.

“What’s your relationship with him?” she demands.

“A friend,” I reply nonchalantly.

She clenches the pen in her hand. “He’s a dangerous man, he’s—”

I urge her when she swallows her voice, “He’s what?”

“You should know,” she condemns. “I’m sure you’ve seen him in the news…what he did and who he is.”

“I didn’t know I needed to run a background check on my friends,” I reckon as I stare at her iced Americano’s condensation.

“Do you want to be friends?” I ask promptly with a smile.

There’s that profound, unadulterated distress again.

Am I that frightening to her?

I’m not lying when I said I have trouble making friends and understanding convoluted emotions because they go hand-in-hand with complications.

“There’s a conflict of interest,” she ends up saying, and I think that’s just a cop-out.

“Oh,” I say and shrugs.

I shove my hands into my thighs, fighting the coldness as clamminess sinks into my fingers. A strangled noise comes from her, and my attention dart to her suppressed emotions.

She caves. “Maybe after the case gets solved.”

“You can say you don’t want to be friends, Officer Norine,” I whisper, “There’re many cops that are friends with civilians.”

In movies. I don’t know if it’s true in real life.

She hesitates with revelation crossing her surprised eyes, then a smile stretches over her lips.

She agrees, “Okay. We can try being friends.”

My phone buzzes just as I’m about to speak, and I shoot her an apologetic smile.

“I have to go,” I bid her a hasty goodbye before fleeing out of the chair.

Cold air claws down my spine, nipping at my neck and caressing the deep-tissue ache from Silva’s teeth imprint. Desire swirls obnoxiously in my stomach when I answer his call, relishing his baritone, and sharing exciting news with him.

“I met an old friend, Silva, but she doesn’t remember me.”

I gaze at the window as she ducks her head to scribble something on her notepad. She gathers a piece of loose hair back into the shadow-veiled bun.

That’s an interesting color.

 _Rotten apple_ , I muse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

My mother is an awful woman and a driving force behind the Silva family.

Brilliant, cunning, and frighteningly vindictive.

I’m the head of the Silva family, but one command from her can start a war with another criminal empire. My permission be damned.

In a way, she is also the boss.

“Speak, boy,” my mother orders while dabbing her lips on the burgundy napkin.

There is nothing to talk about. It’d be a waste of time to say anything when she knows everything. My mother has eyes everywhere, especially inside the Silva family.

She hates being kept in the dark, so she takes it upon herself to find the truth even if it means wrecking everything in her path.

I take after her, and I don’t regret turning out to be the man I am today.

A single decision, no matter how small, can determine if I could’ve met Irisa or not. She’s an addiction, one that I’m willing to keep for the rest of my life.

She’s a special type of poison, slow and directive, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to eat her up.

As graceless and awkward she is, every stumble with her little feet changes her poisonous presence to venomous when she falls into my open arms. I’d still welcome her while knowing the repercussions.

“The toy you’ve kept a secret,” my mother barks.

Rattling chains cuts through the heavy tension, I steal a glance at the wall where a man kneels on his blistered shins and arms twisted behind him. The chained wrists have different healing stages as the man with hollow eye sockets listens for my mother’s voice.

I don’t understand her fancy with eyeless men, and I don’t want to know what she does with the ones she scooped out with her fingers.

“Get rid of her or I will,” my mother warns.

I match the wrath of her glare. The steak knife in her hand gleams daringly under the chandelier, despairing for warm blood to coat the pristine cutlery.

“She’s mine; don’t get involved and don’t touch her.”

The psychotic mania in her eyes turns into a silent storm of lunacy. I just know she’s planning something. She never backs down when her tongue holds a bitter promise of pain and cruelty.

I’m used to the destruction she brings, so this will be a normal Sunday. Once the bloodlust curbs, she’ll return to the same well-dressed and mannerly woman with interest for the next tragedy.

My mother is truly a distorted atrocity.

I will contest her with unparalleled, perverse brutality if she so grazes a hair on my little girl.

“She is a curse,” my mother says rather blithely with a sip of her wine.

Irisa is not a curse. She’s slightly different, but she is not a catastrophe waiting to happen.

She smiles in a way that makes me question it, behaves with uncertainty looming over her, and speaks as if she’s losing figments of her identity.

She doesn’t notice it. I’m perceptive and observant of her; she’s calling out for help.

Being undercover FBI is not the worst thing she can do. I can easily find out with a corrupted agent or inconsistencies in her identity. I still have her file, but I never read it.

I should because I won’t get ambushed without a three-step plan. I shouldn’t because—

Betrayal is common.

I live amongst webs of lies, and unsurprisingly, I’m lying to Irisa too. There isn’t a right time or a good way to tell her that I run one of the biggest criminal empires. My entire existence is illegal, and the things I’ve done and will do in the future will destroy her.

I’ve lived life on the edge for so long that I’ve become numb to the adrenaline.

Irisa unsettles me, and it’s hard to pretend it doesn’t.

It’s a preposterous idea as if I’m asking to die. I need to know everything about her to cover all sides of me, and maybe accept that she is a mysteriously dangerous factor for my business.

No amount of sugar-coating can convince me otherwise.

“I see the devil in her,” she reckons.

My mother and I are stubborn, but she exaggerates as an excuse to justify the wreckage she leaves behind.

She doesn’t need to justify anything when no one will hold her accountable for her actions. The law means nothing to her, and they can’t touch her either.

She’s an abstruse character.

“I’m not speaking as Madame,” she interrupts with a wiry finger. “I am your mother, first and foremost—a mother knows when her child is in danger.”

I can hear the chains again accompanying labored breaths. My mother gently stands from her chair, the legs squealing across the marble flooring as her black heels crack brashly.

The eyeless man shakes with a wide grin, edging towards my mother as far as the chains will let him. Not a second after her heels stop, she jabs the silver cutlery into his right eye socket and up his skull.

All the men she kept never last a month, but they all willingly stay as her toys despite having their eyes gouged out.

I sigh under my breath. The steak smells repulsive now.

She walks back without breaking a sweat as she seats tactfully. Her hand raises to signal the man standing beside the door, and he scurries to her with flashes of eagerness in his steps.

He has glass eyes; he’s the only man who my mother favors because she’s trained him into a toy that will die for her with a simple command.

This is one of the reasons why I don’t visit her much.

_Eyes are the windows to the soul_ ; I think with a silent scoff.

He places a new steak knife on the table and returns to his spot flawlessly.

“Why would you want a little orphaned chicklet?” she questions.

I expected my mother to dig into my little girl’s past, so her question doesn’t catch me off guard. Her being an orphan is news to me, and it takes a moment to adjust to that information.

“She has me,” I dispute icily.

She doesn’t need anyone but me. I can give her everything; money, a place to stay, me—anything she wants, it’s hers.

All but her freedom.

I don’t believe in that ludicrous concept of _love at first sight_ , but she is mine from the very moment I laid eyes on her.

My heart had skipped a beat when those pretty eyes glared at me with frigid placidity.

“I’m trying to look after you, smart boy. I know you’re fond of her, but you will end up killing her with your own hands.”

I turn away, facing her massive window as the black dahlia flowers glow with fluorescent ivory lights wrapped around the petals.

Her garden is a representation of what she feels. She cares for the flowers from an aspect of wanting to watch them wilt.

Those unnatural ivory highlights lining the edges of black dahlias are killing them.

As I’ve said, my mother is a tempestuous character.

My father’s betrayal was a turning point, whether it made her spiral or flourish—I don’t care. She’s always been mad as a hatter.

She whispers, “Short pain is better than long pain. Throw her away before your rationalization digs deeper.”

It’s too late. Irisa is inside my heart, creating webbed thorns as a threat to kill me if I dare to move an inch of her control around me.

I find that I don’t want to even try.

She makes me feel uncanny menace, an itch that only goes away when I have a hand around her fragile neck.

I crave control.

One day, she will pick up my hand and wrap it around her neck voluntarily. She _will_ surrender her life to me, place her vulnerable heart into my hand, and expect me to keep it safe for her.

“I don’t want my child to get hurt.”

I meet her woeful gaze while her tone softens to a miserable quiver.

“You’re a terrible liar, mother.”

Her ruby lips stretch as her eyes curve dementedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

Silva is wealthy, that much I know. He bought the old condo, purchased an estate just for me, and got me a car.

I live in a massive city with an amount of traffic that makes me want to rip out my hair. It just wouldn’t make sense to buy a car when I could use the money on daily things.

It’s been a couple of days since I saw Silva, but he never lets my night end without a phone call. That is his rule; he doesn’t want me walking alone at night.

He can’t stop me.

Well, I didn’t end up going out on my nightly walks again without him. Rather than for safety reasons, I like having his company beside me.

Today is the official moving day. Procrastination sucks.

Now, I’m in my dusty apartment packing and inhaling flying dust while embracing the harsh winter wind.

I’m above multiple floors, so it’s even worse.

It’s either glacial breezes or suffocation by dust.

I pull open the kitchen cabinet, finding more books than I remember buying. The bookshelf was filled, and I had to find a place to put the others without resorting to throwing them away.

I can donate, but I’m selfishly greedy when things are mine. I’m not a generous person, and I know it’s a problem.

Maybe that’s why I have trouble getting friends. The logical concept of losing profit for emotional generosity is outlandish.

I pick up the book on the “sharing is caring” perception. A layer of dust flies off the cover as it falls from my hand and into the welcoming trash bin.

My doorbell rings. I kick the bin to the side and go to open the door. Silva glowers with the same judgmental frown, but his form-fitting suit distracts me enough to filter away my words.

“What did you promise me?” he questions taciturnly.

I let him in as his heady scent whiffs through the small space. “Look before opening.”

I shrug imperturbably and return to packing as he follows me to the stacked boxes.

“My sixth sense knew it was you,” I say with a grin.

He’s not impressed.

“Can you help me pack?” I ask while pointing to the cupboard filled with books.

He doesn’t ask why they’re there. I wouldn’t know how to answer without looking like an idiot.

“I offered to pay,” he says crossly.

Whether if it’s a moving service or the man working for Silva’s business, I refuse to have strangers strolling through my apartment and going through my personal things.

“Why waste money when I have a big, strong man to help me?”

I reach over and squeeze his burly arm as emphasis. He lightly taps my hand away, his handsome face dragging through a scowl as he cups my cheek gently. The gentleness doesn’t stay for long when slight pressure forms under his big fingers as I’m reminded of the freshly healed bruise.

That robbery did a number on the jaw, but at least it didn’t get dislocated. I remember seeing the robber’s face on the news the day after it happened. He died under mysterious circumstances, and the police won’t release the manner of death.

“Money is not an issue, and I’m not working for free,” Silva reckons, breaking me out of my thoughts.

The smile drops on my face. I scrunch up my nose with a pout. I should’ve expected a businessman to reap some benefits out of this.

I was just on the same thinking path as him, so it’s hypocritical to feel grumpy.

“What do you want?” I mumble.

His sharp features relax, and that ignites a swirl of condensed apprehension in my stomach. Silva lifts my face and slants his lips over mine, rough and demandingly forceful. A whine stifles in my throat, circling into a hiccuped choke as his teeth bite sharply down on my bottom lip.

I yelp in pain, scrambling to tug on his suit and missing the grip from the smoothness.

He pulls back an inch and hums to himself. “Not bad for a first.”

Bewilderment mingles with throbbing soreness; I touch my lips and hiss in pain. “I don’t like this payment.”

“That wasn’t the payment,” he retorts.

I squeak indignantly as the blush extends down to my neck. “Then what was that?”

“A greeting.”

That was certainly _not_ a greeting.

“You don’t need to pack anything,” he says, and I recall him saying something familiar before.

Silva adds, “I’ll buy you new ones.”

“I want to keep them,” I whisper through a wince.

His thumb swipes over the tender flesh remorselessly. “Tell me about your new friend.”

He did _not_ just start a whole new conversation after he assaulted my lips like he did nothing wrong.

The audacity of this brute.

“I didn’t make a new friend,” I grumble and snatch my cheek from his calloused palm.

Part of me wants to whip my head around and snuggle back into the warmth. He drops his hand while simultaneously hitting me with a wave of disappointment.

This man confuses me more than the universe’s mysteries to physicists.

“Your old friend,” he notes, “Officer Norine, was it?”

“How’d you know her name?” I question skeptically.

I’m positive that I didn’t tell him the name. However, ever since meeting him, I tend to lose track of a lot of things that are said and done.

“You told me,” he utters.

I did? Maybe it was during one of the phone calls when he’d force me to tell him about my day. He would show up at my apartment if I hung up or refused.

“Eh,” I quip with a shrug. “She doesn’t remember me, and it’s been years since I saw her.”

“She’s on your landlord’s case,” Silva enlightens.

Again, a handful of questions surface in my head. He knows a lot more than I do, including the landlord’s death and Officer Norine. There are times when I assume that he knows more about me than he’s letting on.

“I looked into her,” he confesses, not a moment of hesitation in his eyes.

“Why?”

Silva grazes my jaw with his knuckle, rubbing softly on the healed skin. “I run background checks on everyone around you.”

“Me too?” I step back, but his arm snakes around my waist to pull me to his chest.

“Yes,” he admits reticently. “I never read it.”

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

I scratch the back of my neck, contemplating on what to do with the information while noting the lack of anger.

I should feel like I’m disrespected when my privacy is invaded, but I don’t feel resentment towards him while he holds my private information in his hands.

“You can,” I say, “If you want to know about me. I’m sure you’ve had people get close to you for ulterior motives.”

He gives me a silent reassuring squeeze around my hip. “I don’t let anyone close.”

“Corporate espionage is a real thing.” I sniff with a shiver as the wind blows into the apartment.

“It is,” he states calmly.

I weigh the pros and cons of my next words. This could break whatever we have now, and I can’t predict how he will react.

Silva is a man shrouded in inexplicable danger that surrounding landmines are the tamest thing about him.

“I looked you up too,” I admit.

The pressure on my hip is the same, not an inch tighter when I’m expecting a spine-crushing force. Silva angles his head, gazing through my unblinking eyes to read my thoughts.

“You know who I am,” he tests.

I nod deliberately slow. “Hard not to when your face is on the FBI’s most wanted.”

“Yet, you’re not afraid,” he counters hoarsely.

“I could say the same about you. You’re not scared that I called the tip line on you.”

After meeting with Officer Norine, I thought about calling the FBI because he’s a criminal. Bad men need to be behind bars; that’s what everyone believes.

I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Silva is special to me, an existence that is very much needed to stabilize my purposeless one.

His menacing voice asks, “Did you?”

I shake my head.

“Stupid of you, really,” he sneers through a rumbling laugh as he hugs me to his purring chest.

“I’d have to kill you if you did, little girl,” he continues after an iniquitously eerie pause.

“What makes you think I won’t do it later on?” I question boldly. “You could be saving a lot of trouble if you kill me now in case I do call.”

“I’ll bury you with the cops. Think of it as companionship; I wouldn’t want you to be lonely.”

That condemning taunt lacing through his voice and the cynical hunger in his volatile gray eyes will forever be ingrained in my head.

It’s a warning of what he will do to me if I even think about betraying him.

He cups my face tenderly, rubbing consoling circles on my skin as he smiles dauntingly.

“Call them, _darling girl_ , and see where you stand in my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

Irisa’s a brave girl, or foolish; that remains to be answered.

After knowing who I am, she chooses to stay and live in a home provided by me. Her survival instinct is strong. Normal people would’ve called the police and get a nice reward with it.

Besides the initial hesitation, she’s not afraid of me. She still smiles like her world will never go up in flames by being associated with me.

I can guarantee her life will not be safe anymore. There are inevitable circumstances that I can’t protect her from.

My mother was right; Irisa is a disaster waiting to happen.

I welcome it. I can prove to her, my mother, and the world that I’ll always keep my possessions safe.

I’ll prove to myself that my hands aren’t just for destroying.

Whether she’s naïve or reckless, I acknowledge the confidence in her adamant demeanor. It’s one thing that attracts me to her. The exquisiteness of her self-reliance compels me to take care of her, to discard everything that makes her upset, and hand over whatever she desires.

An unstoppable force collides with an immovable object, spiraling out of control and snowballing into a tragic outcome.

That’s what we are.

I was the one who met her rather spiritedly, giving us a wild meeting that altered our lives. She, however, becomes a force of nature that drags me to her destination.

I lean back onto the sofa.

Where is she going? Whenever she looks out the window, she’s distant and calm to the point of eeriness. Like the world removes itself from her mind and malfunctions her.

Holding onto the title as the head of the Silva family, it’s in my nature to be wary of things. I hate not knowing what’s running through her head.

She’s mine, and I have every right to make her talk.

Releasing a frustrated breath, I flip the holder open. Her picture smiles at me, beckoning the invitation to look under.

Temptation wins this round and the one after.

Her name, home address, and education fill up the first page. The next page interests me more.

The life she made for herself starts after high school where she moved away from her hometown and found a passion for nursing. That stopped a year in. She didn’t finish her nursing program and stopped volunteering at the coma unit.

The hair on the back of my neck rises abruptly. A vicious heartbeat seizes a breath in my lungs, and my blood scalds hollowly through my veins.

 _Sunflower Home_.

I will never forget that name, nor will I forgive the pain it brought to my mother. It was an orphanage that operated entirely on charities and donations.

That ‘ _home’_ tore up mine.

I snatch the letter opener between my fingers, holding the weapon rigidly when I hear a soft shuffle behind me. I smell her floral shampoo before I see her, and Irisa mumbles my name with a delicate squeak.

I glance at the clock on the wall and back to her as she walks around the sofa.

She didn’t have much in her moving boxes, but it still took us the whole day to finish. Her indecisiveness on which room she wanted and where to put her things was endearing yet exasperating.

One distressed look and I rearranged everything to her liking.

I can’t believe I wasted a day going along with her.

She should be sleeping like the dead by now. The exhaustion took over her smaller body when early evening hit, and it is past midnight now.

“New house, can’t sleep,” she mutters, dropping carelessly on the sofa.

I toss the letter opener back to the glass table. The clattering sound startles her as she whines lowly in her throat.

She peers with red-rimmed eyes at the folder in my hand. “Are you preparing for me to quiz you?”

It’s a joke that I don’t find comical. I don’t find many things amusing other than when she is being ridiculous.

I wasn’t planning on hiding it from her. We both know I was going to read it eventually. It’s the smartest choice to make simply because my business doesn’t take perilous gambles. 

The mafia doesn’t give second chances. I wonder if she grasps the fullest extent of being involved with me.

“Play twenty questions and bored me to sleep,” she suggests while propping her legs onto the sofa.

She smiles, and I lose my thought process. Her head lies on my thigh as she adjusts her curled position; the normalcy in her action astonishes me along with the brazen pat on my knee.

I start with the question that plagues me. “How did you meet Officer Norine?”

This time, she doesn’t dodge the question. “We were in the same home before I ran away.”

I wouldn’t have spared a second of my time on Sunflower Home if it wasn’t for my mother. Her relationship with the orphanage is a link to my father’s betrayal.

It’s something that greatly affected us to the point of my mother taking things into her own hands.

Irisa’s file notes that she was adopted, but I know how corrupted the orphanage was. Adoption is just an excuse to cover up her running away. A missing child would rope in the police.

She ran away before my mother single-handedly took down the home as an act of vengeance, so she most likely doesn’t know what happened to the home.

“Why did you run away?” I pet her hair while reading the file once again.

“Don’t know if it’s in the files, but I didn’t want to get sold to some rich couple,” Irisa says nonchalantly.

There are missing and questionable parts in her files, so I only have her words to go on. I take the file with a grain of salt. I need the truth from someone who was actually at Sunflower Home.

I carefully comment, “That place has been running for the past fifty years.”

Who knows how many children are sold to infertile families, into child labor, and the occasional sadists.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, “I met Norine there, but she didn’t go by that name back then.”

Irisa was young when she ran away, and it’s common to not remember the traumatic times from childhood. She remembers Norine, but that woman doesn’t recognize my little girl.

“Everyone was friends but also enemies at the same time. There was nothing to compete for; we had the same food, sleeping arrangements, and playtime. It was weird now that I think about it.”

Irisa buries her face into my pants, breathing heavily as her small body curls even tighter. I run my fingers through her hair, brushing them away from her cheeks to see if she’s crying.

I’d be damned to let a single chance to see her tears go wasted.

I’m an unbelievably appalling man.

I wonder if I went with my mother to the orphanage, met Irisa then—would I still want to snatch and chain her up?

Selfishness is ingrained in my genetics, so the answer is clear as day.

“You’re not going to ask me questions?” She stares at me from the corner of her eye.

“What’s there to ask that I can’t read from here?” I raise the file over her face.

“That’s true,” she quips. “Nothing interesting happened there anyway.”

She folds a hand under her cheek, drawing a shambolic mark on my thigh mindlessly as her eyes close.

I have doubts. The first time I saw that Norine woman was when the landlord’s body got discovered. The amount of fear in the woman’s eyes was crippling like she was going to faint when she saw Irisa.

I have to be careful when prying into Irisa’s life, or she’ll crumble in a way that’ll ruin her appeal. She’s strong-willed and composed, but she exudes grievous weakness.

She’s susceptible to manipulation, to put it despicably mild.

Shutting the file, I save the rest for another time. I want to relish the serenity and a rare moment of her weakness. She does show her unguarded feelings, but this time is different.

It’s _raw_.

I press my hand over her eyes, shielding the lights and warming her cool skin. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m not thinking about anything,” she whispers.

“You look like you want to cry,” I note, a bit heartlessly apathetic.

I blame it on my fondness for her tearful face.

Irisa mumbles with an ambiguous sigh, “Learning is hard.”

I press light pressure over her eyes for her to continue.

“Every day is another buildup of exhausted frustration; I can’t find the right balance of being normal.”

Her pink lips part with a groan as her lashes flutter against my palm.

“Why do you think you’re not?” I inquire as my brows curl with confusion.

She hums. “Didn’t exactly grow up in a healthy environment.”

Although some of her reactions to things are atypical, such as knowing who I am and being the first eyewitness to her landlord’s hanging body—people react to things differently.

Not one person is the same when they deal with life.

When did I become considerate of other’s feelings? I transport weapons that kill thousands at any given minute; human life is useless to me.

“Can you stop your skull-crusher?” she asks gruffly.

I squeeze harder to hear a whine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

“Thank you for meeting me again,” Officer Norine utters as she puts down her bag.

She’s not in her uniform again. Over the phone call, she told me the reason for this meeting. I don’t want to call her stupid, but what she’s doing isn’t wise.

Unless it’s reverse psychology.

Police these days need to outsmart criminals’ craftiness, and it’s a constant battle of who is the strongest.

I wouldn’t put it past her to use me to get to Silva. If that man’s face is plastered across the internet with no consequences, then it means the FBI doesn’t have enough to convict Silva.

Nothing less than capital punishment could stop Silva, but they need irrefutable evidence. Life imprisonment will do the trick.

I’ve researched Silva, and it’s a steep rabbit hole. Direct and indirectly, the number of deaths caused by him is astronomical.

I saw a website dedicated to him, like an obsessed fan documenting all the crimes that Silva did in chronological order.

Isn’t it redundant?

Is it helping the police capture him or helping Silva get rid of incriminating evidence?

On the other hand, the obsessive ‘fan’ could be a vengeful person who had a loved one die because of Silva.

That site is popular; it’s been compared to tributes to serial killers.

I didn’t know what to think when I saw it, so I just called Silva. He knows about the site, but he’s not concerned. Chances are, whatever the site owner knows, the government has a bigger file on it.

“Do you think Silva did this?” Officer Norine asks, straight to the point after she sits.

What is she getting at? My answer doesn’t hold any weight to what she’s pursuing, and it’s likely a case that can bump her career.

“Pomegranate juice?” I suggest as I dodge her determined gaze to look at the menu board, “It’s their Sunday Special.”

Officer Norine clears her throat aggressively.

“No, I don’t think it’s him,” I confess with definitive confidence.

Her eyes narrow with cynical suspicion while she reads between the words. She doesn’t have to believe me; all I care about is Silva not being disappointed in me.

“Why?” she probes.

“Why what?” I counter, grimacing at the drink.

The taste of pomegranate juice sticks to my tongue with a layer of bitterness. This is not what they were advertised. It tastes like an unripe pomegranate blended with sugar.

“What makes you so sure it’s not him?” she remarks hotly. “You know what kind of monster he is and what he’s capable of.”

That’s one reason why I don’t believe it’s him. Silva doesn’t like messiness.

He smacked my ass with a clean, swift, and painfully harsh slap when I suggested a convoluted solution to cook a meal that’ll certainly destroy the kitchen.

My ass throbs knowingly.

“I can only trust my gut,” I end up saying.

What does she want me to do, give her solid proof of murder? I wouldn’t do that even if I didn’t know Silva.

I don’t want the mafia coming after me.

My life is just starting. I’m too young to die.

“Do you not care?” Officer Norine demands, her nostrils flaring. “Someone died because of you.”

“Me? My landlord’s death isn’t my fault. _I_ didn’t kill him,” I deny as my fingers curl around the icy drink.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes briefly, the blood vessels litter over the whites in spidery patterns.

“Of course not,” she snaps with an agitated break in her voice and anger inching around the corners of her mouth.

Her hands clench the table, rattling the already unstable legs as the glass of pomegranate juice topples over.

“You’re always like this—” Officer Norine hisses as her lips peel further back to her pale gums.

“Nothing is your fault, it’s always someone’s! Anytime something happens, it’s your fault but somehow, you’re the victim! This is why I hate you!”

The icy drink spills onto the back of my hand, seeping through the knuckles with long streaks of burgundy and pooling on the monochrome striped table.

I don’t think she expected this meeting to take a sharp turn. She’s here to get to the bottom of the case and get justice for my former landlord, but she couldn’t contain the burst of emotions.

_She remembers me_ , I suppose.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper sullenly.

She slams her hand on the table, jerking up as the chair screeches across the floor. Nosy eyes turn to us as Officer Norine tighten her shaking fists to her sides, and the irritation leaching through her taut muscles roll aggressively over the calm shop ambiance.

“Is everything alright?” the manager inquires as his eyes dart from her to me.

The man’s voice prevents the enraged woman from seeing red. Her eyes widen with surprise as she looks down at my hand. The glass has shattered, and the cool sugary drink mixes with the stinging cut.

“You’re bleeding!” the manager shouts while reaching between us to grab the napkin holder.

“It’s okay,” I say as I wave my clean hand dismissively, but my heart rumbles against my ribs.

“It was an accident,” I assure them while the manager hands me a few napkins.

I dab the cut, unable to tell if it is blood or pomegranate juice. For a shallow cut, it does sting a lot.

“I’ll pay for the glass, sir,” I offer with a smile to Officer Norine.

Her eyes bulge as she sputters through a shocked breath. She purses her lips and jerks her face to the side.

Her anger boils over her seething sneer.

She inhales and exhales exactly four times, then she whips her fiery glare at me. She’s more levelheaded when her glare softens.

“You haven’t changed,” she accuses.

The manager gawkily steps back from the crossfire. He shifts his weight and clears his throat loudly to get our attention.

“I’ll pay for the damages,” she says before glowering at me from the side. “And the emergency bill too.”

I can easily put a Band-Aid on it and call it a day, but she has other plans. I expect nothing less from a _righteous_ , enthusiastic woman with an agenda to prove.

I couldn’t care less about what she wants to prove—maybe her worth, but only she knows.

“We’re going to the hospital,” Officer Norine commands aloofly.

I could say the same thing about her. She hasn’t changed either, always taking charge and believing her way is correct.

“Officer Norine,” I muse quietly as I stand from the chair, “Always the honorable one.”

“Don’t mock me for what you’ve done to me,” she snaps when I walk past.

“I didn’t touch you.” I laugh behind my hand as the cold wind scratches the stinging cut.

“You didn’t have to,” her voice grinds crossly, “That’s what you do the best—being everyone’s nightmare.”

She jerks her head to the side and motions to the car parked on the street. I walk in front of her, ridiculing softly at the accusation as I faintly pick up the sound of her car unlocking.

“When will you take responsibility for yourself?”

“When will _you_?” she counters with an offended snort.

The car vibrates as the engine purrs brokenly. Blasting heat thaws the clamminess in my fingers as I lean my elbow on the arm support.

She pulls out from the parking space and zip into traffic. Her hair is distastefully bright, and it’s hurting my eyes.

“You have a lot of resentment.”

“Funny you point that out considering you’re the reason for it,” she hisses with white knuckles over the steering wheel.

She would’ve punched me otherwise.

I don’t understand why she hates me so much when everything she did was of her own volition.

My heart races again, aching in my chest as my fingers fist the coat on my lap. I miss Silva’s touch; he brings me comfort that I never knew it was possible to feel.

I don’t want to lose it, nor do I want to lose him. Maybe that’s why I decided to protect him in my own way.

However, he doesn’t _need_ my protection when he has the Silva family to rid of headaches.

The mafia is scary.

“You’re projecting,” I reckon as I straighten my spine when I see the approaching black SUV from the side.

“That’s rich,” she jeers.

The SUV slams into us, throwing her car into the air and crushing my equilibrium as fragmented glass breaks like a witch’s shrieking cackle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment, kudos, bookmark!


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

Being skeptical is a given in this business. It doesn’t matter if there is an unspoken rule between long-term business deals; I’ll never trust anyone when it comes to my empire.

I took an insignificant multimillion weapon trafficking ring to a multi-billion empire. Expensive purchases are paid under my supervision, and I never hand over the merchandise unless the boss is there to pass over the money.

The man with black irises whistles while waving the assault rifle around. “Knew you wouldn’t disappoint, eh!”

I wait until the money is counted as his men check the merchandise. They shake the unloaded AR-15s, an obvious display of distrust to me as they continue to search for tracking devices.

I don’t know if I should be offended or feel sympathy for such stupidity, but I’m not empathetic enough to care about their intelligence.

They’re new to the game, but I always wonder how they’re able to stay in business for so long when they wreak havoc on a daily.

This group, _Decaying_ _Sable_ , is dangerous. Not in the long game, but during the moment of rising thrill. They live by the dictum of tomorrow’s apocalypse. They’re reckless, fearless, and daredevils.

Everything could run smoothly, but they’ll still bring violence into the scene just for amusement. There are a selected few who’d do business with the Decaying Sable, but I have a gut feeling if they play their cards right, they’ll take over one of the powerhouses to start a war with everyone.

Some people want to see the world burn.

This isn’t Rome; other bosses will obliterate this cantankerous group with ease.

Their existence doesn’t outweigh the benefits of their deaths.

“Where’s the lassie?” the man in charge asks as he leans his weight on the crate.

“Y’know,” he says while tapping on his chest, “About yea high and a killer smile?”

When he doesn’t find a reaction from me, he throws his arms up and groans. His goons laugh obnoxiously.

“We know!” he rasps, wheezing noisily with bulging eyes. “Everyone knows! She smells good? I bet she smells like a bruised peach.”

The man blows a congested whistle and picks up the assault rifle to lick the barrel with his abnormally long tongue.

“She’s in bed with the cops, and you’re going to let her hurt your myocardium?” he mocks childishly as he taps the wet barrel under his eye.

“Just say heart, you dumbass!” one of his men shouts.

“I’m trying to be smart!” he shouts back without breaking eye contact with me.

“You didn’t finish school!”

I’m starting to believe doing business with them is like giving children loaded weapons. This might very well be the last time I’m approving a deal with the Decaying Sable, or I might just accidentally turn their bodies into honeycombs.

“I see crazy in the girl,” he jibes toothily.

I take personal offense to insults hurled at Irisa. No one has insulted her that I know of yet, so I don’t know what I would have done.

These lunatics are getting close to the last thread of my patience. I’m trying to make this meeting as harmless as possible, but they’re poking at a sleeping bear.

They know what they’re doing. They want mayhem, and I can give them what they crave.

“It’s all here, boss,” Ivo calls as he turns the duffle bag of money towards me.

I nod, and he zips the bag dutifully. I trust Ivo above those who work for me.

He’s been with me since the beginning when I took over my father’s inadequate gun-running hustle. Ivo came to me, swearing his loyalty to me while vowing on his daughter’s name.

He voluntarily handed over a bargaining chip. He’s venturous, and it’s why I took him in. On the condition that his daughter gets a lung and heart transplant immediately.

Ivo took the chance that it might backfire on him, but he did his research. I might be indifferent to human life, but I’m a fair man if the trade is equitable.

He had to prove himself first, and he came back with the decapitated head of the police commissioner.

I’ve been around madness for so long that Ivo’s fortitude didn’t shock me. I was impressed, just not surprised.

“Well, fuck me,” Sable’s leader screams and throws his head back. “You won’t do it like a man, then I will!”

He cocks the rifle at me, aiming it at my throat along with the rest of his men arming themselves. My gun rests above his heart, finger on the trigger with enticement looming over me.

This man is irritating.

He grins as elation prances in his blackened eyes. “I have good sleight of hands.”

I have eyes. He couldn’t have put a bullet in without me noticing. All his talk is a distraction, though obvious and amateurish.

Such immature behavior is embarrassing for a grown man.

A gunshot ricochets throughout the vacant warehouse. I drop to my knees, using the heavy transportation case as a shield from the rapid firing.

One of my men gets hit and topples over, crimson seeping onto the dusty concrete as I glance around to find the others taking protection.

I don’t have time for this. Irisa is waiting for my phone call.

“My bad, chairman!” someone hollers, and I assume it’s the idiot who fired first.

A voice from the other side bellows even louder, “Call me ‘boss’ or ‘warden’!”

“Fuck off with your shits!” another man barks, “We’re dropping like flies! Hurry up, Chupacabra!”

I take advantage of their distraction and kick the heavy crate. It pops open as guns clatter onto the ground, but I’m only waiting for the shadow behind the case to move into my vicinity.

As I point my gun, his silhouette slithers back into the crate’s shadow. He crackles with the sound of his shoes stomping on the ground.

“I’m no fool!” he shouts. “I’m not going to fall for that—”

He needs to think several steps ahead. I point the gun to the small gap created by the ajar lock and pull the trigger. The bullet nicks the cartilage of his ear since it’s the only thing that’s visible from the gap.

He curses in pain and lunges away from safety. He runs straight into the middle of hailing bullets.

His men cover for him as he runs farther away from us, but they don’t miss the chance to mock him.

“Free gauge piercing!”

“I’m leaving you heartless bastards here!” he threatens as he darts to the warehouse’s entrance.

For a group of chaotic men, they’re retreating too early. It’s not sitting right with me. I peer over the crate and watch his men follow after his retreating steps.

I catch a glimpse of something odd on the ground where he was crouching before. I curse under my breath and hop back as I call for my men.

“Bomb!”

I hurl the heavy crate over the ticking bomb and lunge back with reckless power on my feet. I raise my arms to protect myself from the blast and flying wreckage.

The force knocks me back; sharp debris cuts into my clothes and slices my skin as roaring flame sails over the thick cluster of black clouds.

It stings my eyes as the heat laps achingly on my shallow wounds.

“Boss!” Ivor shouts from my left.

_Fucking lunatics_ , I think lividly.

I cough into my fist, waving the stifling smoke from my face as I survey the surrounding damages. While the charge was small, the destruction is worse than I expected.

That man didn’t even care about losing manpower. He was looking for the fastest way to create mayhem.

My men are relatively unscathed with some injuries that can easily be treated.

There will be repercussions for this nuisance.

“Fuck!” Sable’s leader screeches from outside the warehouse, “We forgot the guns!”

“I’ll feed you goat shit, Chupacabra!”

The ringing in my ears diminishes slowly as I watch the retreating cars over the flickering flame. I can’t differentiate the film over my eyes and the evaporating gas.

I can, however, understand the inimical mirth in my blood for retaliation.

“Boss?” Ivor calls again from my silence.

I remove my vibrating phone from the lining pocket as my fingers smear ash over the stained white button-up.

I answer the call from the guard who I had entrusted with Irisa’s safety.

Fate has a lot more trouble to offer me.

_“There’s a problem, boss.”_

I leave her alone for one day—

Bitter resentment fades, paving a path of seething anger to condemn the last shred of leniency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

“Nostalgic, yeah?”

Officer Norine sneers at me from across the room, chained to the wall that seems to be recently installed. The steely color glimmers against the dusty wall as bricks sit by her legs, reminding me how old this place has been abandoned.

It also has been remodeled.

She tugs her arms, rattling the chains and wrenching until her wrists tear small wounds. Blood drips to her elbow and onto the edge of the brick, but it only makes her yank harder to try and dislodge the fortified nail.

“Someone went through all this trouble to make it for us,” I note wittily, “Be gentle with them.”

Officer Norine stares, deadpan with a hint of fatigue.

“That someone totaled my car, kidnapped me, and is holding me as a hostage,” she lists crossly, “So, no, I will not be gentle!”

“If they wanted to kill us, there wouldn’t be an abduction.” I shrug as my heart gives another pinched jerk.

I’m unnerved by the deliberate placement. The people who know about this place are those who’ve been placed in Sunflower Home or are the adults who were running this place.

They weren’t caretakers; they were greedy humans.

“Does torture not ring a bell?” Officer Norine barks.

“You’re a police officer; someone will know you’ve been kidnapped when you don’t show up for work.”

She rolls her eyes and flips her red hair away from her face. “It’s my day off.”

“Oh,” I quip, “That’s worrying.”

She yanks the chains again, gaining the attention of our kidnapper when a squealing of wheels echoes through the hall.

“Think of something!” she whispers, hushed.

I’m not sure if she realizes that I’m also chained and physically much weaker than her. My muscles are nonexistent.

A man opens the creaking door, and something about him is just off. I try to pinpoint what is upsetting my stomach as my eyes dissect every inch of his body.

He doesn’t stand out much other than his abnormally slow pace. He walks with confidence, but he’s slow as if he’s waiting for us to break out of the chain and lunge at him.

If he can see, then he’ll know that—

_Oh_ , I realize quickly.

Those are not eyes. The lights from the shattered window go _inside_ his eyes, something that’s impossible for real eyes. He turns to me, and I hold my breath at the bottomless gaze.

I can see the disturbing details. The lights hit harder at this angle as the pink muscles in his eye sockets sicken me.

“Which one first?” he asks as he extends his arm out to touch the wheeled tray filled with rusted tools.

I don’t know why I’m not scared or even the slightest bit worried about what’s going to happen to me. Part of me knows that Silva will come and take me away from this horrible place.

He’s not my Prince Charming who will whisk me off to the sunset or my knight in shining armor to cut down my enemies. Silva is the monster that will pick me up into his strong arms and eat my insecurities away.

I haven’t had a nightmare since I met him.

He’s a temporary fix, not a cure. A permanent fix might not be possible for someone like me.

I’m numb to the haunting memories that plague my heart. It’s been so long, yet it seems like I was still a little girl yesterday.

I am one; I grew up too fast because I wasn’t allowed to be a child. Survival converted into maturity.

I’m going to be alright. I can get us out of here.

“Do you use echolocation?” I ask the man.

He stares at me, or rather my general vicinity as his brows knot tightly.

His tools are there for a reason other than for show. He wants to hear his victims cry when he tortures them.

The tendons on the back of his hands pop when he closes his fists.

“Does pain excite you?” I question with a scoff.

Officer Norine shakes her head aggressively as her eyes widen to garner my attention. Her lips press tighter to prevent her from turning his nefarious intention on her.

“I’m going to die anyway; the least you can do is answer a question,” I say curtly. “Unless you’re mute too.”

He doesn’t take the bait, but his body coils in itself with anger and indecisiveness. His subtle behavior proves my assumption; he’s not the boss or the one calling the shots.

I sigh loudly while shaking my head. “Are you nothing more than an inept sadist who has to tie up women because you can’t overpower them?”

I glance at Officer Norine between his legs. Her face turns pasty white as irritation takes over the hopelessness in her body.

_Not yet_ , I consider. _Almost there._

The man finally speaks as his shoulders shake with rolling anger, “Madame picked me. I’m special.”

Madame?

Recalling reading a French book, I recognize the title being addressed for a woman with artistry.

“You’re special because you’re an obedient dog,” I utter as I tilt my head back.

The chipped brick digs into my skull, but the pain eases the roaring heartbeats in my ears. My fingers clamp up by the chains, touching the frigid metal and earning a riotous drop in my stomach.

_I’m reliant on Silva_ , I realize.

Somewhere during our time together, I gradually depend on him to soothe the anxious nerves that hadn’t been calm since I could remember.

He’s my haven.

My nails dig into my palms, the pain clearing my head as animosity corrupts the calm composure.

I will not forgive this man for trying to take me from Silva.

“Do you do everything your _Madame_ orders you to?” A condemnatory smile plays on my lips despite his blindness.

“I serve her,” he says.

“You don’t have thoughts of your own? Things you want to do?”

“Madame’s happiness is my happiness,” he intones stiffly as he takes a threatening step closer.

That’s unbelievably repulsive to hear.

“And that is exactly why you will always be a dog to her,” I taunt with a deprecating laugh.

Officer Norine’s chains jangle violently as her lips peel back with a snarl. If she thinks that I’ll let our abductor kill us this easily, then she doesn’t know me well.

That’s not right.

She doesn’t know me at all.

“Take an initiative and be a man,” I urge as I try my best to not let a laugh creep through an uncontrollable grin.

“How’re you going to protect your precious Madame from Silva?” I ask.

Officer Norine hisses venomously, “ _Irisa!_ ”

The man bellows immediately after, “Mr. Silva doesn’t hurt his mother!”

The plot thickens.

The laugh bubbles through my chest, squeaking across my tongue as my stomach twists painfully.

What a coincidence.

Is it though, or did she plan this?

“Do you want to test that out with me?” I ask, genuinely curious about his answer as to how far his loyalty to Silva’s mother goes.

He doesn’t hesitate when he lunges at me, stumbling from the discarded bricks that disconnected from the dusty walls. His wiry fingers wrap around my neck, choking the oxygen from my lungs and slamming my skull to the wall.

“What—” Officer Norine sputters, fighting the restraint with desperation. “ _Hey!_ Let her go!”

Black dots bleed into my vision like dreary watercolor, my breath shortening to coughs as I wheeze in pain.

A clank makes it through the muffled ringing, then a looming shadow rises behind the distracted man. Officer Norine lives up to her name when she brings the concrete brick down on his head, fracturing the bone with a resounding crack.

He drops to the floor, hands dragging down my swelling neck and slumping on my lap. This man has no right to touch me, and I won’t forgive him for it.

Only Silva has the privilege to touch me.

I cough again and inhale sharply. The burning in my eyes refuses to leave.

I glance at the unconscious man and then at her. The determination suppresses the inkling of exhilaration, but she knows I saw it. She hardens her gaze as she hangs onto the bloodied brick, and the wounds on her wrists soak the block in scarlet streaks.

She dares, challenging me with this new identity that she worked extremely hard on.

I don’t care.

She’s useful.

“Don’t,” she whispers as the brick shakes with the fury in her grip. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

She wouldn’t betray her oath as a sworn police officer—a career she chose with a name she believes in.

Officer Norine: a _woman of honor_.

I lick my dry lips with an abhorrent grin. “Nostalgic, isn’t it, _Sol_?”

She needs this wake-up call to be herself. She’s been pretending to be someone she’s not, and I can see that it’s hurting her.

I’m helping her, and in turn, it’ll help me escape this haunting place faster.

Norine lets go of the brick, uttering placidly, “You’re a psychopath.”

She reaches for the unconscious man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

My mother is scheming something.

She hasn’t uprooted the peaceful days in a while, and I should’ve seen this coming.

I prefer meticulousness and systematic tactics, but she is a thunderstorm of pandemonium. Planning doesn’t exist in her mind, nor does she care about having a backup plan. She thinks the impulsivity will coerce her enemies into the purest mindset to fight her.

I’m not surprised to find tension in her shoulders when she cradles her cheek with a manicured hand. The arc of her neck shrinks as she exhales forcefully, the white bandage throwing a tantrum when it clashes with her evening dress.

Flecks of blood dot the bandage.

“Mother,” I say exasperatedly.

“Yes, dear boy?” she answers with an innocent flutter of her lashes.

“Where is Irisa?”

She inspects her unoccupied hand, examining her nails with a contemptuous smile that raises a red flag in my mind.

I received news on Irisa’s abduction in broad daylight. Multiple civilians witnessed two men getting out of the totaled car and haul her with another woman into the trunk.

One of the men dropped an eyeball during the struggle with the red-haired woman. Irisa only knows one woman with red hair, so it’s presumably Norine.

I happen to know my mother’s toy has glass eyes. The other abductor most likely works for her too.

My mother is testing my patience.

“I’m busy,” I remark tersely.

Earlier today, I had the chance to wipe out the Decaying Sable if I hadn’t gotten a call that Irisa was abducted. There wasn’t a single doubt in me that believed my mother was uninvolved.

We had one conversation about Irisa, but my mother’s interest in her is strangely obsessive. The way she speaks about Irisa is filled with excitement—like she was facing a visible threat.

Irisa wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone whatever my mother is imagining.

Unless she sees something that I don’t.

“She’s unharmed,” she drones, “I like her strength.”

I can’t formulate the mess of thoughts scattering around my brain when the embodiment of sinister satisfaction etches onto her smile. Predicting her thoughts is draining because it takes extraordinary skill to think like a fiend.

“What did you do to her?” I insist, disappointment whirring in my heart.

“Trial and error; she passed beautifully,” she says pensively. “I want her to live.”

What my mother wants to say is Irisa serves a greater purpose to her entertainment than one can imagine. When someone interests my mother, it’s typically someone who is more mentally resilient than others.

She has no use for physical prowess since destroying someone mentally causes long-term damages.

This has me curious. What does my mother see in Irisa that I don’t? Am I too blinded by her that I’m missing the obvious?

I swallow the acidic moisture in my throat and note the slight shift in my mother’s eyes. The obscurity unnerves me and a dry, clotted breath creeps unwittingly into my lungs.

The door to her office clicks open, and my hand already has the gun in a firm grip.

She doesn’t have visitors.

The heartbeats in my neck ring in perfect tandem through my blood as I rest my finger on the trigger with practiced ease.

My mother’s lawyer walks in with gleaming glasses and my little girl by his side, unharmed and dumbfounded.

I quickly secure the gun back under the table where I took it from. I’m immediately at her side, scanning for injuries on her delicate body.

I keep an eye out for the hostility between her and my mother.

As far as I can tell, she doesn’t have wounds other than the inflamed lines around her wrists. She smells faintly of mold that mingles with the floral shampoo. There are splashes of blood on her clothes, however, they aren’t hers.

Irisa drops her gaze from mine to glance at my mother, and something akin to obliging antagonism lines the red rims of her eyes.

“Bug bite?” she asks, insanely taciturn.

“Rampant dog,” my mother replies with the same merriment.

Irisa smiles as her small fingers graze mine, sliding through them and holding me with trembling stiffness. Without this hovering doubt, I would think she’s shaking from what happened.

My mother has keen eyes, and if she says Irisa is different, then I have no reason to believe otherwise. That doesn’t mean I’m not skeptical of my mother either.

“I had to put it down.”

“Shame,” Irisa begins with ghastly nonchalance, “He was a loyal dog.”

Her palm is hot when she secures her little fingers tighter around mine, but the fingertips are branding her ownership in cold, hedonic caresses. The change in her is not subtle, and it is rewarded with a quiet purr deep in my chest.

“Loyal, but weak.”

“He is,” Irisa agrees while a bright smile spans across her pink cheeks. “He did attack his owner.”

“If someone hadn’t retrained my dog…” my mother trails off. “No matter. Another will take his place.”

“Be careful to not get bitten again, _Madame_.” Irisa beams, a little teetering on the edge of elation and fleeting fascination.

“Thank you for your concern, Miss Irisa.”

A lance strikes through my heart. The doubt and hunch about Irisa shimmer down, creating a vacuously clear path to strategize properly.

I’m going to understand everything about her even if it’s the last thing I do. Starting with what happened in the hours that she went missing.

The men I had ordered to find her did not come back with good news; they were going to face my wrath until my mother called me to her home.

“We’re leaving,” I command sharply, tugging her small hand to drag her with me.

I hold out the other hand to the lawyer, and he obediently drops the recording device into my palm. It’s common practice to secretly record every conversation involving the police.

He came in with Irisa, so it’s not farfetched to see they’ve been at the police station.

“Visit soon,” my mother says, and it’s more to Irisa than me.

The extravagant mansion is exhausting with golden halos of chandeliers and crystal staircases. My mother is nothing if not superfluous; I’ve lost count of how many times this mansion has been renovated and each time with more worthless glamor.

My chauffeur waits for us with the door open, head bowed down to avoid eye contact, and addressed us properly. He doesn’t make any inclination of involuntary reaction to Irisa; this is her first time being exposed to this side of my life.

Keeping her away is no longer a viable option with the contradictory enticement to expose her to more danger. She’ll be reliant on me, wanting me to take care of her and keep her as my little girl.

She took the news of my identity well, so I don’t see a future problem when she understands how deep my ties to the mafia goes.

I clasp a hand around her arm, yanking her off the leather seat and onto my lap. She grunts as she falls to my chest, the hand slides down her forearm and circle around the marred wrist.

The lines are too clean with no chaffing, so it’s likely handcuffs.

“What were you doing with that woman? Norine, was it?” I question as I examine the recording device.

Irisa’s spine stiffens, I dig my fingers into her wrist to force her body to lay on mine. She muffles a pained whine into the collar of my suit, but her mouth remains shut.

She squeaks in discomfort after the briefest squeeze to grind her bones together.

“Norine asked if you killed my landlord,” Irisa mumbles into my neck.

“I didn’t,” I reckon as I watch the car passes a group of joyriders. “I prefer one clean bullet.”

I pull away from her wrist and wrap my fingers around her soft thigh. Her coat is gone, and the thin pullover doesn’t retain any heat for her body to sustain cold weather for a long time.

Yet, she’s not shivering.

My thumb kneads her inner thigh as warmth escapes from her pants. “I promise.”

I play the recorded conversation that starts with a man’s voice introducing himself as the leading detective in that department, but he’s interrupted by a woman.

Norine. I need to remember her name better.

_“Everywhere you move, people die.”_

I peer at Irisa who has her eyes lingering on the device. Irisa’s voice doesn’t come, so the woman keeps going.

The sound of thick, laminated paper slaps onto the table.

_“Who is it?”_ Norine demands, _“Who is doing your dirty work now?”_

The lawyer chimes in, _“Don’t answer to that.”_

_“Every victim has their face hollowed out, front to back, and is fitted with a crystal. Just like your landlord.”_

I recognize the killings she’s mentioning. It started not long ago when bodies with the same modus operandi are found in public places as if the killer wants to be known.

The news thinks it’s a delusional artist.

I think they’re a valueless serial killer trying to get their fifteen minutes of fame.

_“Are you going to protect me, Sol?”_ Irisa utters calmly.

The woman taunts, _“Bring in Silva; maybe he can protect you from whoever is out there.”_

I don’t need to see it to know the red-haired woman was smiling.

_“It’s your duty to protect citizens.”_

The woman scoffs loudly. _“We can offer witness protection.”_

The lawyer ends the questioning with a series of laws and his client’s rights.

Does that mean Irisa encountered the killer? There are too many questions, but it is not the right place to ask them. My home has maximum privacy, and I will pry it out of her.

I meet her hesitant gaze as her lips quiver. My mercy disappears when tears cloud her expressive eyes; I am not in a lenient mood.

“I’m tired,” she whispers.

I lean in, kissing her trembling lips with alarming gentleness that startles her.

“You will talk, little girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

He has a massive bathroom with a switchable glass shower stall, a ginormous bathtub, and a freakishly clear mirror.

Silva’s wealth is immeasurable, and I almost feel guilty about staining the marble floor with my dirty clothes.

That’s not the most pressing problem. Silva is also in the bathroom with me, insisting that he will stand there until I come out from behind the opaque glass.

We’re supposed to talk, but I’m using the shower as an excuse to dodge him.

Silva’s irked. He’s going to break the glass if I stay in here any longer.

“Can I get dressed first?” I shout over the glass.

“I’m not stopping you,” he says collectedly.

“In private,” I mumble, and I know he can hear me.

“I can’t see you.”

I don’t like how calm he is as if seeing me naked doesn’t bother him. I want a sense of dignity, especially in the bathroom where I shouldn’t feel abashed to be naked.

I huff, riled. The towel rips from my body and tosses to the side sulkily. Hot air brush my bare skin as I reach over for the matching set of underwear and bra.

He said it’s a gift with the most shameless expression I’ve ever seen on him, and his handsome face is stoic half the time.

Other than the times when he’s constantly annoyed with me. Those are the moments when I assume he was going to eat me.

I pick up the other piece, and it’s silky lingerie.

I should’ve asked him to take me home where I can wear comfortable clothing and have a good night of sleep.

The slight change in color on the opaque glass startles me, forcing me to throw the lingerie over my head and fumble with the arm placements.

I’ve never worn these things before. I manage to understand the complicated strings just in time to drop the frilly bottom over my ass when the glass opens.

Slapping a hand over my eyes, I turn my head to the side. I want to look, but I can’t.

His muscled torso is marked with sophisticated ink, spiraling in haunting ways that makes my fingers want to trace the patterns.

The waistband of his pants hangs low on his grooved hips. Any lower and it’s going to show something neither of us wants to see.

Who am I kidding?

Of course, I want to see—

He rips my hand away from my face and tugs me out of the stall without a word. Noises lodge in my throat as his taut back ripples with thick muscles, hooking my attention with the ink seeping into the hard lines.

I stumble after him while he takes me out of the bathroom, but his master bedroom isn’t doing any better at settling the drop in my stomach.

He stops at the foot of the bed, spins around, and glares irritably into my eyes. Reflexively, my shoulders draw up to shield his gaze from my vulnerable neck.

Forget the see-through lingerie, my neck muscles still throb from the last time he bit me. I was in pain; I didn’t like the infuriating itchiness when it was healing.

“Irisa,” he utters, a growl resonating through his thick chest.

I turn away, avoiding the weak tremor in my knees as the room’s coldness kisses my sensitive limbs.

My lips tremble with an ache inside my cheek. Tangy copper sits on my tongue as my teeth bite down harder, and I welcome the pain to distract me from my confusing feelings.

“You just thought of something; what is it?” he demands harshly.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I want to throw my arms around him, tell him to take me away from the plaguing nightmares, and kiss the confusion away. Then I keep remembering what I did to get here and why I’m walking on a thin thread of depravity.

Am I a bad person?

Maybe I would’ve turned out differently if my family actually parented me, if the Sunflower Home wasn’t selling us, and if I didn’t meet Norine who pushed me just as much as I pushed her into who we are today.

I can’t stop; I’m in too deep. Just a little longer and then I’ll—

What will happen after that?

Would Silva still want me? Would he wait that long for me to be a good girl for him?

I realize that nothing in my life ever stayed.

I lick my dry lips and mumble, “My parents gave me up because I didn’t know how to behave normally. I don’t know when I’m hurting someone. The books in my house are there for a reason; I have no grasp of human emotions. I don’t understand them.”

Too much happened today, and I’ve been running on adrenaline. I didn’t notice it. I’ve been taking care of myself for so long that when the revelation of needing Silva hit me, I feel a dissonance.

It feels nice to rely on someone.

“That’s it? Is that what you’ve been hiding from me?” he asks, composed and candidly dismissive.

A dagger digs into my heart, twisting cruelly as pain behind my ears feels like a snapped rubber band.

“You never asked,” I mumble, my voice breaking pitifully.

What am I supposed to say? That I hurt people for fun, intentionally or not?

He doesn’t hide the clear distrust in his stormy gray eyes when he hums contemplatively. Silva rubs my cheek fondly, caressing the hot skin, and brush away the stray tear.

Since I was a child, I’ve always been in the limbo of half-truth and half-lie. I lost track of how truthful I’m being when lying becomes a necessity, and it just got easier with deception.

Lying is fun, so maybe that’s why it’s easy.

I beg after a sniffle, “Please stop asking me about this—I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

Condemning jubilation shines in his darkened eyes. He doesn’t care about how I’ve been hiding a part of me from him. He’s more immersed in owning me—possessing me in a way that I don’t even own myself.

“How else will I be able to turn you into my obedient little girl?”

Silva pushes my shoulder, and my knees take a painful hit to the ground while he sits calmly on his bed. His muscled thighs cage me, compelling my eyes to stray from his burly chest to the bulge.

The fabric can’t hide the twitch.

“When you get overwhelmed, I will guide you,” he says.

He could be implying about my thoughts or the hard cock he’s taking out from his pants. It’s intimidatingly big with a throbbing vein and a drop of cum on the swollen tip.

My little pussy pulses hotly.

Inexperience kicks in, breathing doubt down my spine and nicking my clit with lapping desire.

“I don’t know how to…” I trail off awkwardly as the drop of cum drools down the prominent vein.

My hand flies to his cock and wrap my small fingers around him. He’s too big for my fingers to touch.

A violent twitch startles me. I snap out of my instinctual stupor and blushes furiously.

He holds my hand to stop me from jerking back and starts a slow pace as I rub his thick cock with his guidance. I keep the pace when he lets go, allowing me to explore his fat cock on my own while being fascinated.

More cum dribbles from the swollen tip. I want a taste of it; I want to feel the weight of his cock on my tongue while I suck on the tip for more.

My tongue peeks out, wetting my bottom lip and catching the languid drop of cum over the pulsing vein. He’s soft and hard, but the taste of him sends fiery sparks down my pussy.

My desires make me bold and giving the leaking tip a strong suck satisfies that. His calloused hand slide into my hair, tangling strands between his fingers and urging me to take him.

I have a small mouth, so swallowing his fat cock is hard. My jaw strains tenderly, but I surge forward and run my tongue on the underside.

A guttural groan vibrates from his chest while he disregards my protesting, muffled moan and shoves the noise down my throat with his thick cock reaching the back of my mouth.

My ears ring without air in my lungs, my hands tremble around his throbbing shaft, and my scalp scalds in pain. Silva relents, ushering me up with a controlling motion in my hair.

Webbed saliva clings to his glistening cock and breaks apart, the ending string flings to my chin as I wheeze for air. My little hole won’t stop clenching at the memory of him shoving his big fingers inside my virgin cunt.

I swallow the taste of him and inch closer for another suck. Bobbing my head, I slurp his cock and close my eyes from the filthy sounds.

His hold in my hair demands I do better to pleasure him. He’s just too big to swallow in my throat.

Silva doesn’t care.

My throat tightens as he shoves my head down to wrap my lips over the last thick inches.

I choke, tears spring from my eyes and splatter on his taut muscles. He’s getting bigger as it expands in my throat. Spurt after copious spurts shoot down my throat, coercing a wet cough as my muscles work around his twitching cock.

Depraved amusement paints his lips when he smiles satisfyingly, and he rubs my head like a pet. My tongue flicks over the vein and catches more creamy cum onto my tongue as he slides out wetly.

Cum smears over the reddened shaft with a beckoning glisten. The residual creaminess slithers down my throat smoothly, and I lick the rest from my lips.

Silva raises my chin with a roguish grin and wipes the trail of tears from my cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

She’s going to kill me.

“Stop,” I hiss against her quivering thigh. “Don’t look at me.”

Irisa whines, twisting on my bed with her soft body under my restrictive control.

“But—”

“No.” I nip the softness, licking a hot stripe along.

I’m trying my best to not hurt her, but she’s making it harder to be nice. I hate how she looks at me; enticing my yearning to bury my face into her drenched pussy and fuck her on my tongue.

“Can you—” she whispers daintily, “Like before?”

I glance at her from between her thighs and inhale her heady scent. I still have some fight left in me before the final thread of my control breaks and hurt her on accident.

I don’t want to hurt her; she’ll break too quickly. I want her addicted to me the way she makes me want to bend her over and feed her tiny pussy with my big cock.

She’s small. Her soppy little hole is going to feel impossibly tight when I fuck her. For now, I want to build her up because it’s going to hurt either way. Her damn virginity is too obvious.

When I fuck her, I want her to spread her pussy and show me how wet her cunt is. Only then will I feed that tight hole and force her soft walls to milk my cock.

I want to watch the cum gush out too.

I’m getting too ahead of myself; a little too greedy as well.

“Please?” she begs prettily.

How can I deny her?

The dull ache at the base of my cock becomes unbearable. I press the swollen shaft onto the side of the bed while I haul her ass closer to the edge.

I pull on the panties’ waistband to flick them off, her pungent scent invading my lungs and clouding my head with vicious hunger.

My cock throbs insistently, demanding my rightful place in her sweet pussy.

She stops shaking. Just waiting in heavy silence that I am very aware of. She’s prey to me, a little delectable dessert to be devoured.

“Silva?” she whispers, deceitfully vulnerable.

I pinch her slippery fold, part her lusciously pink cunt, and inhaling an even worse wave of rewarding essence. She’s a sticky mess, clear webs of slick breaking as I spread her untouched pussy wider.

Her hard, sensitive clit peeks out; I couldn’t resist a teasing suck.

She jerks in surprise, squealing loudly as her legs jolt.

“Keep them on the bed, little girl,” I warn rather unsympathetically.

She’s my good girl, so she holds them open for me to claim that tiny, swollen hole drooling with viscid juices. I regret not seeing this sight when I first touched her, but there’s no point in dwelling on the past when she’s willing to give herself up to me at this moment.

She’s too flushed—like she’s in pain.

I lick a long, slow stripe over her glistening pussy and savoring the lovely taste on my tongue. She is the sweetest thing I’ve ever had the chance to eat, and I despise sugar.

Lapping at her dripping cunt, I keep her wet folds apart to dip my tongue into her pulsing hole. She squeals again, mewling a tune that goes muted when it reaches my ears.

My cock hurts, and I need to cum again.

I curl my tongue over the swollen bud, flicking harshly and sucking the juicy clit. She writhes with curling toes, moaning pathetically soft and sobbing my name for mercy.

Her legs are parted enough to keep her pussy open without my support. I gather a thick glob of slick just as it slides through her pink hole and pushes it back inside.

She chokes; coiling walls instantly tighten around my finger as it pulses hotly.

It feels like waves of undulating sponge. Loud squelching noises fill my ears, taking over the humming ambiance as I fill her puffy pussy with another finger.

It’s harder to spread my fingers than I anticipated, but it’s also expected from a little unused pussy.

I wrap my lips around her neglected clit in time to fist my cock with my free hand. The slippery bud quivers as her tiny muscles suck on my fingers for cum.

She’ll be disappointed, but it won’t be the end of the world.

I want her to cum; my addiction to her taste is growing too strong that my cock won’t cum from my hand. It’s too rough and too calloused, unlike her smaller and unskilled hands.

I should’ve fucked her hot mouth again.

Curling my fingers, I shove them against the spongy spot to make her keen. Her clit is not saved from a sharp nip and a harsh slide from my rough tongue.

Her squishy walls tighten, keeping my fingers trapped as gushing hot cum floods my hand. My tongue rolls the bud and laughs throatily as her swollen hole tighten more.

She doesn’t have her voice anymore as she trembles on the bed, disoriented and flushed to the tips of her ears.

I have other plans in mind. I give her clit another suck, earning a pained yelp before I climb over her. My cock drags over her quivering stomach as I relish the size difference between us, and it’s obscenely big against her pussy.

Maybe if I wasn’t so fond of her, I would’ve hiked her thighs over my hips and snapped her virginity around my fat cock.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, I am awfully fond of this girl.

I want her _trained_.

“Silva,” she mewls, needy.

I thought lingerie would enhance her beauty, but it takes away the natural innocence. I tear off the flimsy portion, leaving her perky tits hiding behind her bra.

It doesn’t stand a chance against my strength either.

The straps scratch her shoulders as I yank them away. I lift her limp body onto my lap, sitting her juicy cunt over my cock, and grind her little clit down.

Her hitched breath stifles breathlessly as her pebbled nipples quiver. I brush a thumb over the hard bud, pinching lightly while I look her in the eyes. Humiliation churns in her tearful eyes as she wraps her weak arms around my neck.

I hiss a curse as I catch the unsightly bruises on her neck. Another man put his hand on my little girl and was able to get away with it. I’d resurrect him if possible and kill him myself.

“Move your hips,” I whisper into her ear.

“I don’t know how,” she mumbles, hiccuping quietly.

I splay a hand over her ass with no intention of sparing the plumpness a sharp slap. I burn the scalding handprint into her skin and grip hard enough to see her ass spill between my fingers.

“Think of your little pussy fucking my cock,” I suggest shamelessly.

Her puffy folds part around my fat cock, leaking messy juices on me as she angles her hips to roll her clit with the grinding. I didn’t think she’d get this soaked, and it’s hard for her to fuck herself on my cock without my help.

“Do you want your panties, little girl?” I ask, more mockingly than compassionate.

I’m an awful man. I like seeing her struggle with frustrated tears. Panties have traction, but it won’t be much help.

Irisa shakes her head incoherently when a hesitated nod almost makes it in.

She purses her lips, peering at me shyly through her lashes. “I want to feel you. Can you help me?”

There is something special in the way she asks, so timidly certain that I’ll deny her like a detestable man that I am.

“What do I get in return?” I ask with a languid tilt of my hips.

She gasps and blinks her blurry tears away. Irisa press her perky tits to my chest, kissing me on the lips with reckless abandon.

“Is that good?” she mumbles against my lips.

“For now,” I rasp huskily.

I could feel her sodden pussy twitch when she smiles. The strange pride on her face stores in the back of my mind as I bring my other hand on her ass to get a firm grip.

A change of mind has my hand framing her neck.

My fingers circle her throat, replacing those hideous discolorations temporarily. She heaves shakily, rocking her hips and nudging her little clit over the pulsing vein.

I guide her ass with a stronger pace, keeping her clit squished and using her viscous juices to rub her harder. My cock thickens more, and the coil starts to unravel through her violent shuddering.

Her unfocused eyes widen and pinch shut as her release gushes down my cock. The sheets soak up the slick that drips from my cock, but there is too much.

Tightening my hold around her neck, I yank her face to look at me with those disoriented and teary eyes. A thick spurt of hot cum splashes on my taut stomach, dribbling messily and pooling distastefully wet on us.

Oozing cum drools from the swollen tip while my cock twitches.

Her debauched face makes me forget about it.

“What do you say, little girl?”

She slurs, “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

He’s hot to the touch—a human furnace.

Spiraling ink breaches the white sheets, it stains the allure of purity with ghastly black creeping into the colorless layers. It’s impossible to make sense of the ink on his skin when the scars sever many connections to the whole picture, but the jagged discontinuation is what makes me fond of his ink.

His bare chest is flush against my back like a hot iron branding his ownership on me. I don’t hate the touch; I’m pretending the dream of having Silva with me in the morning is real.

Maybe it is. Maybe not.

Half the time with him is a dream to me. I would think if I blink or act differently, he’d disappear in front of me.

Silva is a factor I can’t control, and it terrifies me. I’m not used to being dependent on someone, especially this much.

It’s strange, really.

I’m safe in his arms; they’re steel bars around me to fight off danger that lurks in the back of my mind. The worst enemy is the thoughts in my head, and I feel that it’s a losing battle from the beginning.

Then, Silva came and yanked me from drowning myself in murky confusion.

At this point, I don’t even know who I am.

His breath fans over my hair, arm tightening around my waist and fisting the shirt while pulling me tighter to his massive frame.

I couldn’t sleep in lingerie. It made me too vulnerable—too subjected to isolation.

His ink coils with the same tension as his burly arm. A distracted blink brings awareness to my fingers tracing the pale scar that’s eating away the black ink, but it’ll be years before the haunting color pales.

Warm, secure, and protected.

_Make a list_ , my voice whispers delicately in my head. Make a list of things that utterly petrifies me of him.

_Tell him_ , the devil on my shoulder lures. Tell him, so he gets the chance to run away from me, a girl who was never normal to understand what it is like to be normal.

Silva is the head of the crime family; a vicious criminal and a brilliant mafia boss with unimaginable power at his command.

He isn’t exactly _normal_ either.

He knows it and is born with it, but I have to learn it.

I shouldn’t speak for him. I hardly know what he’s thinking most of the time, and I could be absolutely wrong. This could be a façade to guard an unhinged part of him that I see when he would look at me: a predatory gaze inclining into unforgivable iniquity.

He’s a dangerous man, and danger attracts naivety.

I catch myself off guard, my ears picking up the disquieting wordless harmony that is all too familiar. I sink my teeth onto my tongue, holding the pain in disbelief as my fingers jerk away from the irresistible inky patterns.

I’m Silva’s good girl. I can’t believe I just—

My knuckles push insistently on my lips, unable to believe the daring act I just did.

“What was that?” his deep voice purrs from behind, startling me in his thick arms as he curls them unbearably constricting.

“Good morning,” I whisper, trying to disregard his question and hoping he’d let it go too.

He doesn’t. His massive frame folds over mine, sinking me deeper into his suffocating embrace. It’s hotter, almost blistering, but the icy chill sends my body into a violent tremble.

“Did you learn it from my mother?” he questions.

Last night was a bizarre time; he didn’t accept anything less than a detailed account of what happened during my captivity. He asked in a way that has me wondering if I’ll die in his hands before the sun rises.

I told him about the man his mother _deployed_ , the Sunflower Home, Norine using her blood to wiggle out of the metal cuffs, and the man taking it into his own hands to bite Silva’s mother in an act of rebellion.

Rather than his volition, Norine and I had a hand in it. It was self-defense; his mother shouldn’t have sent her dog to attack us.

It was justified. It’s not my fault.

I swallow cautiously. “No.”

I’m glad I’m not facing him or else my mouth would run endlessly to wipe the disappointment off his face.

“That humming; a tune of some sort,” Silva mumbles, burying his face into my hair, “When my mother does it, nothing good comes. I’d have to clean up her mess.”

I blame curiosity for wanting to know when I should be keeping my mouth shut.

“Why?” I mumble, resting my hand on his muscled forearm. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.”

“She hates it,” he says, and I’m taken aback by the honesty.

I’d thought he was going to lie because it’s about his mother, and family is a touchy subject for many people. It’s even worse when he has enemies willing to do anything to hurt him and take his place in power.

“The humming calms her when she gets irrationally overwhelmed,” Silva reckons with a scoff. “It reminds her of the hatred she has for my father.”

He never speaks about his family, but I met his mother rather unconventionally. I wonder what is going on between him and his father to garner such hate in his voice that his grip nearly bruises my ribs.

“I won’t ask,” I say, and it feels right to tell him.

He counters as a deliberate effort to evade the issue with his father, “What’s bothering you?”

I wiggle deeper into the soft duvet, inhaling his musky scent as a shiver skims down my spine. My eyes grow heavy, prickling sensations litter behind them as comfort begins to seep into my bones again.

Silva shifts his arm, a big hand grabbing my breast with a disturbingly cruel grip. I yelp, mewling brokenly as his fingers unintentionally pinch my pebbled nipple.

“What if I don’t want to tell you?” I mumble wretchedly.

His wrist is big as I wrap my hands around. His grip is relentless and strong, marking my skin with reddening patches. I’m going to get his handprint at the very least and hopefully no bruises.

My body suffered enough with them.

He hums quietly, hand squeezing my breast a touch firmer. “You underestimate me.”

No one said things like that to me. He talks like I’m important, a little too precious to leave alone—like he selflessly wants my bittersweet lies as his own and takes the brunt of the consequences with a silent promise.

Promise that _he’ll_ protect me and promise that _I_ will never lie to him again.

At least, that’s what I want to believe.

I wet my lips with a shaky breath, already regretting the words flying out of my mouth.

“What’s it like when you first killed someone?”

“Nothing,” he says, “I felt nothing.”

His voice is cold. He notices the shiver and pulls the duvet over my head. I tremble from the tranquility in his velvety voice and the absence of everything from composure to pride; it’s _candid_.

I don’t expect Silva to feel sympathy or regret. The mafia is a world of carnage and violence.

“I never killed anyone,” I confess, the truth sitting agonizingly on my tongue, “I know Norine kind of implied that I did, but I didn’t.”

If I knew I was being recorded by that lawyer, I wouldn’t have said anything in an off-the-record interrogation with Norine.

“Who is it?” Silva probes, finger climbing into my hiked shirt, “The one doing your dirty work.”

I mumble, “Don’t really know.”

That’s skating the line of truthfulness, and Silva knows it.

This is starting to be an interrogation.

“Why are they doing it?” he grills.

I shrug, wanting his hand to stop bruising my breast. “Same reason why the landlord died. He harassed me with ‘special discounted rent opportunities’ even after I made up a boyfriend.”

“You were stalked,” Silva reckons dully. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Will you be mad at me if I didn’t tell you the whole story?” I ask hesitantly, taking his hand away and turning to face his thick chest.

“I’m disappointed right now,” he says, and his voice is much deeper.

I press my forehead on his hot skin, relishing the burly arm curling habitually around me.

I say, “I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t notice I’m doing it.”

I do everything I can to get out of a situation that makes me uncomfortable, and avoidance is easy.

He remarks, “You’re trying, or you wouldn’t bring it up.”

His forgiveness comes too easily.

It’s worrying.

I debate if I want to bring it up, but him nudging me closer to his scalding body abolishes the thoughts. My survival instinct goes haywire, laughing joyously as virulent dread skirts through my veins.

He’s going to hurt me if I don’t satisfy his interest.

I blurt compulsively as I slam my eyes close, “I’m using him; the man who left those bodies, and he’s getting rid of everyone who’s bothering me.”

Silva falls into silence, fiddling with my hair between big fingers.

He notes, “He was following you when we first met; I felt him looking at us.”

Again, his voice is void of everything. It’s frank, emotionless, and empty.

I don’t want this side of him. I’d rather have the Silva who likes to wrap his hand around my throat and talk to me as if I’m a possession in his care.

At least, I’m accustomed to it.

“I’m sorry that I brought you in this, but I don’t feel bad at all,” I whisper, throwing my arm around his grooved waist.

An unsteady chuckle comes with a thoughtless and joking tone. “I think I have some chemical imbalance.”

“Who doesn’t have them?” he retorts over the chirping birds.

“Aren’t you mad at me for essentially lying to you?” I risk a glance at him as I prop my chin on his chest.

“Your lies, whatever you’re scheming up here—” Silva taps on my skull with a hollow sound, “It’s what brought you to me.”

I give a pathetic nod and turn to face down again, an excuse to avoid the disappointment swimming in his gray eyes.

“I’m fucking furious, little girl,” he hisses, his strong body tensing with arms going rigid. “Do not lie to me again, by omission or not.”

I suck in a breath and hold it, belligerently fighting the instinct to please him—to push him away and stop the soaring pain hammering in my heart.

“Don’t test me,” he warns bluntly, and it’s enough to coerce the seed of riotous fear to bloom in my chest.

I grab his warm hand and put it on my chest as I rest my forehead above his heart.

“I promise,” I choke out.

My heartbeat mimics his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

This is a short list, but the ties disconnected at the most inconvenient timing.

I have Irisa’s past memorized. Her time at school is as plain as it can get with a spotless record. The vacant years from her birth to the day she is in Sunflower Home is gone, but I expected it when I started to read.

Once a human trafficked child is removed from their home or the guardian voluntarily gave the child to Sunflower Home, their birth identity is wiped. A new name is given, and that’s the name the child will go with until they’re ‘adopted’ by the buyer.

The buyer often requests specifics in the child or a particular child.

Money provides leeway.

Whatever happens to the child after they leave Sunflower Home is beyond anyone’s control.

Irisa was adopted by a wealthy couple, given elite educations and limitless hobbies, and decent allowances. On paper, it seems like she was lucky to get a new and better life opportunity that many would want.

A happy botanist couple with a well-behaved child, living life to their fullest and traveling around the world for experience.

Then, they were found inside a sterilizing glass on her eighteenth’s birthday.

The police ruled it an accidental death caused by starvation, dehydration, and asphyxiation. They assumed the system malfunctioned during scheduled cleaning.

It’s probable, but I’ve always been a skeptical man.

I know more things about Irisa now compared to when we first met, and I know she has something to do with it. Perhaps not directly, but that indirect tie is not going anywhere.

I believe her when she said she never killed anyone. I’m not ruling out Irisa crafting a convoluted plan to get her parents to their predicament.

She’s the sole benefactor to their abundant wealth, but she never cashed their life insurances or touched the money that is legally hers from the will.

Money motivation is not plausible.

Then, her history is blank during the year when she was nineteen.

“Boss,” Ivo addresses when he steps into the room after a resounding knock.

I set the glass of rum down, the indentations distorting the amber with ribbons of white. Placing the file to the side, I lean back on the cushioned chair as I observe the anxious man.

“Sit, Doctor Avery.” I gesture to the seat across me, a glass of rum waiting for him to calm his nerves.

Alcohol loosens tongues, in case his Hippocratic Oath is stronger than his will to live.

I prefer a clean method of information extraction, but sometimes I just want to kill.

Nothing can compare the chilled adrenaline and fiery thrill of blood running down my hands, netting my fingers and dipping besides the grotesque body.

“Um,” the man peeps with his hands clamping his thighs tightly.

“There was a girl who used to work under you. Her name was Irisa,” I lead as his eyes dart endlessly.

Recollection brightens his confused gaze as his head snaps up; he gasps with an excited breath. Ivo snaps his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, halting the jittery man as the hands rubbing his thighs lock stiffly.

“Yeah,” Avery musters, “Yeah, uh, Miss Irisa.”

“Tell me about her,” I order sharply, signaling Ivor for privacy.

Ivor angles his head dutifully and leaves the room quietly. The silence doesn’t bother me, but Avery pants through his mouth with continuous shudders.

“She’s a hard worker,” he says, swallowing tentatively. “Everyone likes her, and we were all saddened that she left after one year.”

“Who was she close to?” I pick up the glass of rum and savor the taste.

The sweetness creates a film over my tongue, but the reminder of Irisa is worth it. I can’t convince her to stay in my home longer, so any sweetness is a bland substitute for her.

Irisa says she wants to immediately make a cinema room in the estate that I bought her, and she needs to do it before she loses interest. 

Waking up to her soft body, naked under a shirt that she borrowed, is a testament to my iron will. I take pride in my control, but she’s setting out to destroy it.

The doctor reveals, “She wasn’t close with anyone; friendly but work-focused, and she kept her personal life private. I don’t know much about her.”

Avery rubs his clammy hands down his thighs, containing his heavy breathing as his eyes widen more.

As long as he’s telling me everything about Irisa, there is no reason for him to fear me. I’m not unreasonable, especially waking up in a pleasant mood. I refuse to stain our first morning together with blood by whatever means necessary.

“What did she do?” I inquire with a taunting swirl of my glass.

He gulps visibly as his eyes fly down to his glass. “She was a volunteer in the coma unit. She keeps an eye on the patient’s vitals, talking to them, and helping out the nurses.”

Avery waves his arms around, frantic and scared as he explains with explosive speed.

“She wasn’t responsible for patients’ hygiene; we have orderlies to do that! No laborious work either; she was strictly a volunteer.”

That doesn’t answer what my suspicion is whispering into my ears. The ‘artistic’ killings started after she left the hospital, exactly one month after.

It was the lunar eclipse. A photographer happened to snap the shot with a perfectly aligned angle, the moon taking over the hollowed face. The police didn’t have evidence the photographer was the killer or had contact with the killer, but that picture made headlines.

That’s how it became the signature: a circular crystal replacing the face and back skull.

Distasteful and troublesome.

“Ah!” Avery pops his fist into his palm. “Miss Irisa was reassigned to the intensive-care unit for vegetative state patients after three months with us.”

He shudders, rubbing his hand over his arm and wrinkling his white lab coat.

“She took care of a death row inmate who fell into a vegetative state. I heard he killed women during intermittent rages.”

I gauge his fear, noting the slight tremor in his pupils before he pinches them tightly.

“Why was she assigned to him?” I question coldly.

She should not be anywhere near dangerous people. What if she got hurt? What if she died before I could meet her?

“Miss Irisa insisted,” the man whispers fearfully. “None of the nurses were comfortable, so she took the role. She selected him by name.”

Why the hell would she want to put herself in harm’s way? Unless she went to the hospital with a plan, knowing that the inmate was there.

Avery mentions, “She said she wants to read to him, stimulate his brain and wake him up for justice to be served to the victims.”

Forgive me for calling nonsense on it.

“What else did she do to him?”

Avery scratches his chin, thinking hard to recall his memories as stress lines between the wrinkles by his eyes. He’s battling his oath when a hesitated purse of his lips comes, but one look from me deserts the pathetic pledge.

“She was singing to him—” Avery pauses and shakes his head, “Not sing. I don’t know what it is because it’s not a melody or a tune; it’s more like sounds stitched together.”

My mother’s humming comes to mind.

“Sound it out,” I command impatiently.

Avery sputters, taken aback as the inaction in his brain bends my vexation a little too much. He clears his throat, humming indecisively and through disjointedly shrilled vocals as he seeks to recall more.

Irisa’s voice takes over my mother’s, humming pleasantly in my ears as morning birds follow closely.

They’re the same sounds.

That man fits the criteria.

“Tell me about the inmate.” I clench my fist as a jubilating purr rolls in my chest.

“He woke up after Miss Irisa left!” Avery shrieks obligatorily. “We—we think her absence led to his subconscious altering when she has been a constant presence.”

An oppressive and throttling silence drape on us. Avery’s nerves break. His hand shoots out to snatch the drink, downing it in one swing and grimacing distressingly.

The gravity of the situation finally dawns on me.

It’s a form of brainwashing. Light but effective. Every time she hums in his vicinity, that’s the signal to kill. She had plenty of time ingraining signals in his head and connecting it to his murderous intent.

Maybe his stalking is another elaborate signal, or she’s his victim type. I hazard a guess that the man isn’t aware of what Irisa had done because a man like him has a hatred for women to an extent.

He wouldn’t knowingly let a woman control him.

I’m beginning to understand my mother’s fascination with Irisa.

“Um,” Avery squawks.

I grab the rum bottle, bashing it over his head and carving his skin with the fragmented glass. His surprised and pained cry abruptly cuts off as he sprawls to the ground.

He’s bleeding on my rug.

“Get rid of this trash, Ivo.”

The man steps inside the room and picks up the unconscious body with remarkable swiftness.

Doctor Avery is no longer useful, and everything spoken stays in this room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

“Miss Irisa, do you love ballet?”

I stare at Silva’s mother with two buff bodyguards flanking her sides, their sleek black suits matching her velvet red dress. Her curls fall on her shoulder as the wind sways them towards her tapered waistline, and she towers over me with her sharp heels.

I, on the other hand, was amid of renovating a movie room when I was physically lifted into the arms of the man on her left. He took me out of the estate with alarms blaring through the rooms and putting me in the back of a limousine.

There, I was judged for my casual attire by this woman who had the audacity to say I’m not properly dressed for a black-tie event.

That wasn’t the worst part of my day. I was forced on a private plane, jetted off to Moscow with no passport or shoes.

She presented a pair of flats as if she predicted it, or it was a way to mock me with humiliation.

Unfortunately for her, I have thick skin. If it’s from Silva, then that’s a different story.

I like _his_ humiliation.

“Do you?” she asks insistently, “I despise ballet.”

I adjust my ass on the firm seat as the curtained stage turns dark. “I’ve never seen a performance.”

I have no opinion about it. I’ve heard the appeal to abstract beauty and everyone’s interruption to beauty, but I’m just not interested.

“Why’re we here if you hate it?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

She chirps, “It keeps me angry.”

This woman is strange and hard to converse with. I thought I was having trouble talking to people, but Silva’s mother is on a different level.

She’s cryptic. Not thrillingly and mysteriously, but in a preposterous sense.

_Madame,_ Silva’s mother, put me on a nine-hour flight for an unprompted ballet performance and bizarre ambiguity. 

Did she forget she tried to have me killed?

Bright lights shine on the stage, hefty curtains roll open, and lights concentrate on the ballerina in the center. Her limbs twist, flowing in tandem with the soothing music and spinning leisurely.

My toes curl in discomfort. A muscle cramp inches into the muscles, and I flex my toes in the flats to get rid of it.

As the music kicks up, the lines in her muscles sharpen, my heart thumps.

Time goes by, and my pulse rises in beats. The appeal of ballet stirs my heart, yet the indifference dawdles lifelessly in my veins.

That is the longest two hours of my life while being extremely short. I still don’t know what to feel about ballet, so I don’t put energy into it.

“Dinner?” Madame inquires unceremoniously.

I stretch my legs as I stand, shoving my hands into my sweater pocket. Murmurs from beneath the VIP floor grows louder as the applause fades away.

“What exactly are you aiming for?” I question back.

“My son cares about you,” she says.

Her manicured hand tosses her hair back, securing the fur coat over the exposed skin from her dress. Her heels crack with each step, muting my light taps as my feet refuse to get used to the flats.

I’d kill for a pair of running shoes. Granted, I don’t run, but they’re comfortable. 

“I want to see why,” she remarks boldly. “He’s fond of you in a way that is exceedingly different from my fascination with you.”

“I’m not interesting,” I utter blankly.

Madness walks across her smile when her ruby lips stretch, and it matches the eccentric curve of her beautiful eyes. They’re gray like Silva’s.

“I see myself in you,” she whispers, walking away to leave me standing there in a stupor.

This woman keeps getting more confusing. I debate whether if it’s smart to entertain her, but I don’t want Silva to be angry at me. I don’t know how their relationship is, so it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Madame is _intense_.

Does Silva know his mother abducted me again?

I exhale, exasperated. I’m getting more questions than answers, but I don’t want them anyway. I don’t trust a word from her mouth.

I rush to keep up with her spitefully long strides. The amount of confidence to walk this fast on the red rug is making me imagine her sailing down the flight of grand stairs.

“Did you love your home?” she asks with an abstruse smile.

I grumble, “I just moved in—”

She interjects curtly, “I mean the Sunflower Home.”

My foot slams on the next step. Adverse loathing boils in the back of my throat, hostility rushing through my stiff limbs to appease the impulse to lightly tap on her shoulder. She’d fall like a disgraced angel, auric halo sculpting the fleeting horror in her widened eyes, and blood wallowing like a flourished rose.

“Am I beautiful in death, Miss Irisa?”

I blink, and my hand stops inching towards her. Glancing at my fingers, they’re too calm. Then, I notice her hand had signaled her men to not interfere.

Her eyes gleam joyously. They shine with goading determination and a trace of expectation that I’d push her down.

I choose to ignore her taunt. “Silva will be angry.”

“He will,” she agrees, “But at whom?”

She points a finger below my collarbone. “At you for hurting his mother?”

Her hand withdraws to her chest, pressing her slim fingers to her heart. Madame smiles once more, but this one is livelier.

For a passing moment, it’s sincere and consoling.

She jeers, “Or at me for breaking his toy?”

The tension thickens in the air; prickling antagonism reassures me that it is appropriate to be angry. She’s provoking me, putting my thoughts on the continuum of black and white.

She turns away to walk down the last steps with grace. Her voice travels like a floating fragrance, repulsively strong.

Madame whispers, “I hate Sunflower Home as well.”

Several people walk into the VIP lobby, strolling with demanding presence and arrogant demeanor. The men in black command everyone to step away and pave a clear path for the family of three in the middle.

Their eyes meet ours.

Judgment, disgust, apprehension, and fear coexist on their faces.

I don’t know who they are, but I will never forget the boy with a crooked smile.

The woman in a tiger-print coat sticks her nose into the air. A wordless demand to bow down to her as she dramatically folds a black-lace gloved hand over the other, the massive diamond ring twinkling under the chandelier.

“What a coincidence!” Madame gasps, hand hiding her lips.

The man in the middle reacts the strongest. He goes to stand in front of the young man, shielding the boy with squared shoulders and a puffed chest.

“Take them there,” the man orders his bodyguards before whispering to the young man and the woman.

“You’ve become ill-mannered, more so than before.” Madame shakes her head with dissatisfaction.

The tiger-print coat woman glares at Madame with inexplicable anger, and her fury crust around the corners of her lips when she sneers.

This woman is beautiful, but Madame’s beauty comes from class and elegance.

I don’t like either of the women.

“Oh, my!” Madame grins giddily as she peers at the younger man who has his head popping out.

“He’s grown so much!” she says, “Must be exhausting.”

The man barks out another urgent order for his guards to take the woman and the younger man to the VIP section.

“What do I call you?” Madame asks, ignoring the man.

“Don’t talk to my son!” the tiger-print woman yells with a heavy accent.

Madame also ignores her to smile persistently at the boy.

“His name is Kirk,” I remark tersely.

The young man, _Kirk_ , flinches.

Our names, the ones forced on us, will always be a reminder of where our lives crossed—where everything started to go wrong.

No one came out of Sunflower Home with a bright future, considering the children never made it out.

“His name is Kirk?” Madame echoes with feign bewilderment. “I call him the bastard of a whore.”

The parents bristle with indignant, but they don’t fight the accusation like I thought they would. They have bodyguards while the woman’s purse has stitching of the Russian consulate.

“How did you get in?” the man asks, agitated. “This is a private event.”

It must be nice to have diplomatic privileges.

I spare the seething woman a glance, and she’s about to explode from the insult. Their bodyguards step closer while Madame’s guards also protectively flank her.

It doesn’t take me longer than a concentrated thought to know this is not a coincidental meeting. Madame, the woman, and the man have a history together. Kirk and I do too.

Two birds with one stone, whatever Madame is scheming.

Madame buries her smile into her fur coat slyly as she pops a shoulder out.

“Poor lost boy,” she tuts disdainfully. “Adjusting alright? I’m sorry your mother sold you to that horrible home to be _purchased_ back by my husband like cattle.”

Whirlwind bewilderment slaps me in the face, and Kirk’s surprise beats mine in bafflement.

Did Madame just say this man is her husband?

A little speculation tells me that she is the mistress, and Kirk is their lovechild. Later, the woman sold their son to Sunflower Home for whatever reason, and the man bought Kirk back.

Kirk’s mind must be going through gymnastic measures to make sense of it as his head whips back and forth to his parents.

Oh, dear.

Madame gasps again, melodramatic as hell. “You didn’t know they sold you?”

“I did not sell my boy,” the man snaps.

Well, Kirk’s mother did.

“Ah, yes,” Madame whispers. “ _She_ traded you to keep her diplomatic status.”

Kirk sneers at the tiger-print woman. “Is that true?”

A flash of red runs out from the corner. I follow the captivating color, and Norine stumbles to a hasty standstill.

I don’t question it when I turn to face Madame’s innocent façade. Norine’s impeccable timing is her doing.

The cunning woman says, “I thought it’d be kind of me to expedite a meeting between _misplaced_ _children_.”

The way Madame says it triggers a black cloud of cruelty in my mind. I have to get back to Silva before I find comfort in previous habits.

I’m unsure why she’s doing this and what her endgame is, but my heart is raging against my ribs.

I do know that the hatred in her voice is genuine.

Everything is happening too quickly in one day, and I can’t breathe.

Madame hums an eerily familiar tune; one where Norine flinches and Kirk faints.

She turns to me with a knowing smile. “Sunflower Home’s lullaby.”

I know; I created it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

My mother abducted Irisa again. At least, she’s unharmed this time when she returned.

I’m going to have to make it clear that there will not be a third time. She and I have agreed that some things are off-limits, and Irisa is one of them.

“What are we doing here?” Irisa asks with an owlish blink.

I rub the back of her hand, kneading the delicate curves of her knuckles as her smaller fingers stretch to ease the tension. I squeeze our intertwined fingers harder; she emits a throttled yelp.

“What happened?” I ask, tugging her down the long hall.

I utilize this place for the sole purpose of interrogation. Each room has its history; harrowing screams, crimson-painted surfaces, and imprisoned souls that will never see the light of day again.

This is not a murder house; I don’t have people abducted to be tortured for entertainment even if the black market has a niche for it. The money is not worth the risk and law enforcement nuisance.

This place is strictly for business.

My men only need to hurt them enough to get them talking with fear guiding them.

In case they still lie after a limb comes off; hacked, sawed, or twisted off—that’s up to the interrogator.

Then, there are those stubborn ones. A bit time-consuming, but sadistic gratification is rewarding. My men already have a history of crude violence, and basic torture barely scratches their itch.

“My mother took you to Russia,” I remind as I open the door to an empty room. “What happened there?”

“Why do you think something happened?” she questions back, reservedly naïve.

“Pandemonium is her favorite thing.” I close the door and steer her to the table in the middle of the room.

She cocks her head curiously. She doesn’t see it, but I can visualize the pooling blood dripping down the table even after it’s been cleaned.

“Her ploys only benefit her; you’re a chess piece to her,” I say, picking Irisa up and setting her ass on the table.

She swings her legs to shift her weight, her thighs rubbing on my legs, and slides her fingers into mine again. Her body language is open; I can read them with ease and understand the trust she has in me to _not_ do anything bad.

“I met your dad.”

Recurring vehemence fulminates through my veins, replacing my scuttling blood with iced fury and paves a surface for accustomed apathy. The same thing happens every time I hear about that man. I’d see red behind my eyes, but it dissipates into indifference because that man is dead to me.

If it wasn’t for my mother, I would’ve killed him already.

Out of respect for my mother and her happiness, I remove myself from it. It’s her right to destroy everything he loves and kill him herself.

My mother is a vindictive woman even when I was a child. She’d do whatever it takes to get what she wants, and she’s not above peeling skins off.

Irisa grunts, throwing her arms around my waist and pressing her pretty face into my chest.

“Your mom was in a talkative mood during the plane ride; she said it was bonding time,” Irisa mumbles as her nose scrunches when a whiff of acidic copper glides over.

Bleach can only do so much about the smell.

“What did she tell you?” I caress the back of her neck and take a fistful of hair.

Irisa mumbles incoherently through a whimper. My conflicting feelings are hurting her, and I would’ve done more if I was a weaker man.

That bastard will not have that kind of power over me.

The grip relents; I run gentle fingers through her hair and soothe away the pain. She huffs, pouting distressingly while she fights to get my hand away from her.

I lean down, pressing my lips to her wrinkled forehead. Lingering there, I relish the softness and hear the soft pitched breath.

Her voice croaks when she recounts the events in Moscow. It’s a lot for her to comprehend in one day; my mother did not hold back on telling her everything—and I know that’s a form of manipulative behavior.

She wants Irisa to be her centerpiece.

She told Irisa about his affair, getting that woman pregnant, and leaving my mother after the woman gave up the baby because mafia ties will fuck up her diplomatic immunity. That cowardly man _purchased_ the child back, signed a confession deal, and got out of prison early on good behavior.

As if my broken childhood history wasn’t a slap in the face to us, he had the fucking audacity to marry the affair woman and raised the child.

I won’t lie and say it’s not a smart decision. Diplomatic immunity gives him protection from all ends.

What my mother told Irisa is only the tip of the iceberg and the vague events don’t seem too horrible from a third perspective. I anticipated something on her face; pity or sadness.

I get a blank canvas of delicate features.

“Irisa,” I warn with a scowl.

She confesses promptly, “His son, Kirk, was from Sunflower Home.”

That’s why my mother is relentless with Irisa. She’s connected to too many aspects, but she isn’t associated enough.

Rather than my mother’s endgame, I’m interested in Irisa’s.

I can ask her. She promised to not lie to me, and this would be the chance to test out how honest she was. Then again, actions speak louder than words.

“I will retrieve you after I finish my business,” I order sternly with another kiss to her forehead.

She tightens her legs around my thigh with a stifled whine, but I step away from her with a cruel tilt of my head.

“It’s dark in here,” she whispers.

“I won’t be long,” I insist before walking out the door.

The lights will keep her on her toes, highlighting the dark corners with vague shadows and shrouding her with heavy tension.

Ivo waits by the next room and opens the door for me. The man is tied to the table with leather straps grinding into his writhing limbs. His neck is restrained, forcing his eyes to look into the blinding light.

I flip a switch by the door, and one wall fades into a reinforced mirror. It’s not a wall; it’s a psychological torture tactic to force the sufferers in the next room to watch torture being inflicted.

Shared pain is great.

Irisa sits there, pretty and shocked. She hops off the table and runs to the mirror with wide eyes, her small hands pressing on the glass, and examine this room with appalled trance.

The man on the table reacts the strongest. He fights the strains, spitting curses when he sees Irisa and snapping his teeth at her.

She can’t hear us.

I roll up the white sleeves to my elbows and appear by his side. I want her to have a great view of how I can extract information.

I need him alive and able-bodied.

My scalpel rests above his new tattoo. The coldness snaps his head towards me, and his eyes fly to the instrument with a curl of his brows.

“The fuck you doing?” he barks. “I’m Decaying Sable! I—”

Nudging the scalpel to his neck, he freezes like a deer in headlights. His Adam’s apple bobs anxiously, dread coloring the whites in his eyes as I sink the scalpel into his skin.

He screams, thrashing with blood gushing faster. A body’s instinct is to move away from the pain but being restrained only forces his skin to move into the instrument.

This isn’t the precise cut that I was aiming for, but it’ll do for now. I put the scalpel back to the tray and dig my fingers into the cut as blood coats the blue glove. Tuning out his screaming is second nature to me as I feel around for a bone; I hook my fingers under it and yank with strident force.

A snap follows a pop, and just like that, I hold a piece of collarbone between my fingers. The first time I tried it, it was messy and frustrating. I got better at it over time with multiple failed experimentation.

“Why are you following Irisa?” I question impassively as I toss the bone to the tray.

Sweat seeps through his hairline as he tries harder to quash the holler of pain. He doesn’t answer, so I reach for the instrument again to break the other side.

He manages to squawk, “I hate her! I don’t know why, but I just really want to kill her.”

I counter, “Why didn’t you?”

I scan the tray of sharp weapons and contemplate what I should use next. I want to try something new, but I don’t want to elevate his chances of dying.

If I didn’t spend two days commanding my men to capture this pest, I could’ve stopped my mother from snatching Irisa off to Russia.

He coughs with a wheeze. “Hell if I know. She scares me.”

“Did you attempt to kill her?” I continue, testing the reflexes by nudging his arm into his chest.

The shriek bounces around the walls, and Irisa flinches as if she heard it. Her ashen face scrunches while she crosses her arms under her ribs.

The man, who has been subconsciously doing Irisa’s dirty work, yowls, “Depends on what you’ll do to me.”

I look down at his hand. He promptly curls his fingers protectively into his palm. His strength is unmatched by my brute force as I easily uncurl one and bend it back to his knuckles. The snapped bone doesn’t sound as refreshing as the collarbone, but it does the trick.

For the hell of it, I twist the dislocated joint and force the bone to cut through his skin.

“Okay! Okay!” he shouts as his voice shrills brokenly. “I didn’t do anything to her! I have blackouts! I just know when I hear her, I wake up with fucking blood on me!”

“Why were you following her?” I ask.

I had a feeling someone was following her the day we met, but I couldn’t be positive without confirmation. I also couldn’t leave her at the bottom of the hill, so I went against the best of my judgment and went down to get her.

It was and still the best damn decision I’ve made.

“Want to know why she makes me feel like I’m dying,” he slurs sluggishly.

The gash on his collarbone is leaking too much blood.

_Such a shame_.

Doctor Avery died telling the truth. This man was subjected to light brainwashing under Irisa’s care.

That conniving little girl.

“You can leave,” I remark dismissively.

I have the confirmation I need.

The man lifts his neck despite the gaping wound. “Are you talking out of your ass?”

The blade is in my hand faster than I can formulate a thought as muscle memory takes over. I jab the weapon below his kneecap and yank it out to slice the muscle.

“You still have use for now,” I note while lifting my gaze to the mirror.

She’s beautiful with the projectile blood across the glass. I want her to see this side of me, the brutal and savage man who she will have to kiss later.

“Swear if I see the sun again… I hate red. Fucking nasty,” the man slurs wearily.

Strange words for a serial killer who carves a hole through skulls. It’s a bloody task—unless this is something Irisa tapped into his mind too.

_Ah_ , I perceive aloofly, _that Norine woman._

Why do I get the sense that it’s a game, a sort of entertainment for Irisa to cause trouble for others?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

“I want to be alone for a few days.”

Silva silently observes the twitch on my shoulder as his gray eyes dull cautiously. His big hand strokes soothing circles on the back of my hand, inciting memories of his cruelty on a man who did nothing to Silva.

When Silva came to get me from the other room, his white button-up was stained with his sins and ruthlessness.

He could’ve asked me, talked to me if he wanted to know. He didn’t have to go that far, but I don’t have the right to say that.

I used that man to get rid of nuisances for me without dirtying my hands. I never killed anyone before, and I don’t plan to either.

“Do you like it?” he asks, whispering against my cheek as he smiles.

I shy away from his hot breath fanning over my bare shoulder as the wide-collared shirt tips to the side. He clinches my waist to stop me from fidgeting between his thighs, one bending under my ass and the other propping up to lock me in his embrace.

“I had it renovated for you,” he purrs vilely.

The darkened room flashes with beginning scenes of a movie. I don’t remember the name or care about it, I just want to lay in bed.

Between dealing with his mother and seeing up-close on the practiced ease in his interrogation, I desperately need a moment to myself.

From time to time, I feel that I bit more than I could chew.

However, I know I won’t achieve my goal without giving up parts of myself. I’ll probably never get them back, but it’s a decision I’m making for myself.

Looking back at the reason for getting me here, I want to laugh. In disbelief or foolishness? I don’t know.

I never felt my motivation was idiotic and dramatic for the objective—the determination to start this long game.

Silva is making me think twice.

Maybe—

“Talk,” he demands, crushing my smaller body to his big, muscled frame.

On impulse, my voice shatters dolefully. “Was thinking about what would happen if I didn’t meet you.”

He continues to stroke my fingers, massaging them gently and pressing his lips harder to the side of my face. A growling, raucous purr rumbles from his chest, sending chills to my spine as I sink deeper into his arms.

“And?” he questions with a plain hum.

Whatever the answer is, he’s not going to like it. Would it make him angry if I don’t answer? Does my silence constitute a lie?

I promised him that I wouldn’t.

“Scared,” I manage to whisper, “I’m scared.”

The caressing gesture stops bringing me comfort; it’s a restrictive hold now. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s firm and menacing. Not threatening with pain, but rather the ambiguity behind the strength in which he also displays so tenderly.

He’s protective, almost smothering at times. It balances on the line of obsessiveness where he sees me as his possession, something he will do whatever it takes to keep.

“Scared I’ll hurt you?” he intones dismissively.

“Yeah,” I mutter, “And I’m scared this could be a dream.”

This is embarrassing. What exactly am I saying? My thoughts aren’t any better because they absolutely don’t make sense. I’m grasping straws.

Can I just _delete_ those thoughts?

I can’t even begin to imagine waking up one day and everything turns out to be a dream. I don’t want to lose Silva; he’s all I have.

I didn’t have anything before, and he helped something in my heart bloom.

Those psychology books aren’t helpful.

He makes me feel something I’ve never experienced before.

“Close your eyes,” he says, lips moving to the shell of my ear.

Tingling shivers dive into my neck, I grimace as the sensation turns into soft tickling. I do as he says and closes them tightly. The active screen flashes whiteness behind my eyes, then they fade away as the darkness grows denser.

“Up.” Silva pats my hip, nudging my ass effortlessly.

His thumb snags the pair of loose pants and panties in one hook. My knees knock together at his rough ministration as my bare ass plop on the velvety sofa.

I gasp, fidgeting as I close my thighs. “Wait, no—”

“You’re stressed,” he reckons, chuckling deeply. “Too much happened today. You need to relax.”

I pinch my eyes shut obediently, refusing to break his order as I shudder frantically. Flooding memories of the first time he touched me in my apartment with my legs open, his big fingers fucking my dripping hole frightens me into silence.

His teasing touch was mean, his rough rubbing was kind, and my first orgasm was terrifying. I didn’t know my body could feel trembling pleasure.

“Can we—” I swallow hesitantly, “Can we just lay down?”

Mortification climbs up my trembling knees as I keep my legs firmly on my chest. Air kisses my twitching pussy, skimming over a film of wetness that shouldn’t be there. He didn’t even touch me, and I’m already wet.

My body wants him. He can rub my pussy with those big, strong fingers and make me cum.

“We can,” he concedes, “After.”

Silva adjusts me between his legs, propping mine over his in a déjà vu position that renders me weak in the stomach.

“We can do this quickly and be in bed,” he suggests huskily. “Or I can make you more stressed.”

My thighs part on their own, and I shiver at the cool air nipping on my exposed folds. My muscles tremble from the stretch, but I didn’t part them far enough to let my little clit peek out.

That doesn’t matter. Silva’s hand is already ghosting down my inner thigh and cupping my pussy with his calloused palm.

My mind manages to catch up to his last words. “What do you mean “more stressed?”

He presses harshly on my clit and squishing the bud maliciously. I arch to his rumbling chest as his laughter mocks my hips for grinding into his touch.

A dizzy spin has my pulse skipping erratically while I drop back to his chest, welcoming the firm support of his hard body.

His hair brushes the side of my face as his mouth suck on my neck, licking the flustered pulse with a threat of his teeth biting the skin.

Two merciless fingers run up my slit, coating the digits and roughly opening my folds to the air. The stringy slick snaps apart from his ministration, taking me by surprise at how drippy my cunt is as a trickle of juices dip over the tight hole.

His name dissolves into a moan as he breaches the tiny hole with two thick fingers. My eyes roll back behind my eyelids, the shaking worsens as he curls them against the spongy spot.

My quivering muscles suck tightly around his fingers, coiling and mimicking the need to milk his fat cock so his creamy cum can stain my cunt.

I dare temptingly with a hint of tentativeness, “Can you…?”

I rock my hips, fucking his hand and rubbing my ass on the coarse zipper over his thick cock.

“Fuck your little pussy?” he finishes imperturbably.

I nod, humiliation stinging on my cheeks. His shamelessness becomes my burden to hold as my heart seizes agonizingly.

“Not yet,” he denies with ease.

“Why?” I demand, and I’m shocked by my bold voice.

Silva uses his other hand to pinch my clit while two fingers in my pussy fucks me harder. They stretch my sodden hole with wickedness as they wiggle roughly on the sensitive nerves.

“Why not?” he retorts, scoffing.

I mumble airily, “You’re being mean.”

He’s doing this out of spite to himself, to test out his patience and strengthen his control. His cock pulses persistently on my back, demanding that I take his fat cock out and let my pussy swallow him down to the base.

My tongue darts to wet my lips. The tempo in my heartbeats changes drastically, and my nose itches as the rims of my eyes burn bafflingly.

“I’m protecting you, little girl,” he murmurs against my temple.

His pace picks up, thrusting viciously as spiking pleasure jumps into my stomach to loosen the knot. The sweet release is at the tip of my clit, and if he just rubs a little harder, then I can cum.

“I want to spread your legs, eat your pretty pussy, fuck your tiny hole with my fat cock, and stuff you full of cum.”

His dirty confession meets my mewl as I mutter, “I want it too.”

“I wasn’t asking for permission,” he chides gravely. “It will happen soon, whether you’re ready or not.”

I just don’t get why he won’t throw me on the ginormous sofa and fuck his cum inside my welcoming pussy. I want him, and now he makes me want his cock even more.

My virginity laughs in synchronization with my inexperience. For a virgin, I’m very desperate.

How can I not be when I saw, touched, and sucked on his thick cock?

I drank his creamy cum enthusiastically.

I’m going to die of embarrassment.

“You’re distracted,” Silva notes. “Seems I’m not doing a great job.”

My objection dies in my throat as his fingers rub harsh circles on my swollen clit and the others thrusting faster inside my hole. Squelching juices fly to my thighs, allowing his fingers to open my pussy wider.

A cramp form near my toes as they curl, my walls swell with slick gushing between his fingers. His burly arm restricts my thrashing, and my wanton moan mutes his vile chuckle.

“Did that feel real?” he taunts hoarsely.

Silva is not a dream but rather a driving force to finish what I started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

“Does winter run in your family?” her dainty voice asks.

The ice clinks against the glass of bourbon as I switch my attention to her. The sensual curve of her back faces me, her hands pressing on the full-length window, and the harmless wonder in her voice heats my body more than the liquor.

I should not be imagining her begging me to fuck her harder against the window. I made a vow to myself that I want her to be completely dependent on me before I take her virginity.

It’s rightfully mine, but the timing isn’t right.

Two days ago, when she asked me to fuck her, it took too much concentration to resurrect my self-control.

“What do you mean?” I take another swing, and I finally notice the choice of drink.

Every liquor I choose to drink has a sweeter hint than what I’m used to. On the contrary to popular belief, I prefer mine to be bittersweet. The perfect balance can’t go wrong.

“It’s winter where we live, your mom took me to Moscow, and now Norway,” she notes as she counts her little fingers on the glass.

We’re on vacation away from the crushing tension. I’m not a mafia boss, and she isn’t—

What is she?

Irisa is far from normal, but she isn’t dangerous either. I think she’s just a girl forced to grow up in a horror house with no guidance. That’s why she needs me to help her—to guide her into my arms and stay there.

I’m her home.

She doesn’t tell me her goal or why she does certain things, but I’m not going to ask her. Irisa tends to look like she wants to cry when the conversation has an inkling of going in that direction.

I like seeing her cry, just not that way.

Not when anguish clouds her eyes, suppressed frustration at the corners of her lips, and frightened retreat in her shoulders.

It’s a cry that will turn into sobbing—a cry coming from the bottom of her heart.

I can’t guarantee I can hold back from destroying the very thing that’s hurting her. I want her to get the closure she needs in her own way.

So, I won’t ask.

Whatever she needs, I’ll give it to her. Manpower, money, and time; anything she needs, it’s hers.

This villa is hers. She can break everything in here, and I won’t be angry. Taking the frustration out on broken things can be therapeutic, I’ve done it before.

Although, it was on unwilling bones.

I want to see her smile, the naïve and carefree grin that unsettles my heart.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen one.

When she turns to me, I ingrain the smile into my head and make a mental note to take her to a tropical island. Maybe a hot sun can bring a different kind of smile to her face.

“Look!” Irisa squeals happily, tapping her finger persistently on the glass with her head turned over her shoulder.

I follow her finger to the veil of iridescent green surging through the black sky.

Putting the bourbon glass down, I pick up a thicker coat to drape over her small shoulders. She lets me dress her when she’s too taken aback by the brightness in the sky.

It’s a new experience for me to see such _positive_ liveliness. The repressing, withdrawn demeanor she usually puts on is a façade.

This smile suits her better. It’s coming from a place of safety and comfort; she didn’t have to _try_ to smile.

I pause as revelation crashes down on me.

It comes down to her simply not knowing what she is feeling. That’s what makes her upset—because she doesn’t know.

The psychological documentaries, books on human reactions, and the incomprehensible behaviors at times; she doesn’t grasp emotions.

I should’ve noticed this a long time ago.

A chuckle bubbles in the back of my throat. Her affronted huff brushes over my shirt and hit my chest with her pitiful strength. I capture her hand and bring her cool fingers to my lips.

I couldn’t contain the incredulous laugh.

“You were just thinking of something offensive,” she accuses with a pout.

Yes, offensive. At my lack of awareness, that is.

I kiss her soft lips, relishing the plumpness with an uncontained chuckle. She whines indignantly and raises a hand to scratch the side of my neck as an act of payback.

I don’t know why the revelation amuses me.

“Apology accepted,” she grumbles against my lips.

She balances back on her feet and grunts crossly. I unlock the window and slide it open; frigid air blows inside and claws on my skin to take over the warmth.

“You’d get a better view outside,” I advise.

Pure rapture sparks in her eyes as her smile turns into a grin. She spins to the window and rushes outside, dashing through the light float of snow as she stumbles clumsily down the deck stairs.

This exterior room is built for aurora viewings, but an experience like this is better outside.

I throw on my coat and follow her small footprints. Irisa dodges the snow-covered bench and hop onto the frozen pond without hesitation. If it wasn’t for this month’s freezing forecast, the thin ice would’ve caved in.

Her arms flail gracelessly, skidding closer to the pond’s center.

She’s going to slip.

“ _Ah!_ ”

Her ass greets the ice.

I shake my head with a sigh as I step onto the slippery ice. I’m mindful of my steps while I walk towards her and peer down.

She doesn’t have any intention of getting up when her eyes stare wondrously up at the sky. Redness dusts her cheeks, white breaths stirring like wide ribbons and vanishing with fleeting clarity to her rosy lips.

I grab the front of her jacket and pluck her off the ice before she gets a headache. Her arms rush around my waist, using me as her pillar to stand still.

She nudges her forehead on my chest. “Can I ask you a question?”

My arms circle her back, providing warmth to her chilled body. Even with the coat, she has a low body temperature. When we return, I’ll get her a higher quality tailored coat.

Irisa looks at me through her lashes, curious and hesitant. “Do you like your dad?”

I’m not upset at the question. I tug the fur hood over her head to shield the falling snow as I contemplate the answer.

My response will always be the same.

“No.”

“What about his son, Kirk?” she whispers, hugging her arms tighter around me.

A fiery nudge in my stomach churns. I hate his name on her tongue; another man’s name coming from her sweet voice sounds like vibrating shrieks.

I grunt candidly, discontented. “Even less.”

Her lips part. “Oh, I was just thinking about him.”

That younger man’s existence is too insignificant for me to care about him, but I need to reconsider that thought.

“He’s _expiring_ ,” I imply confrontationally.

He’s a Russian ambassador’s son; that type of heat can hurt me with one small mistake. My empire is a criminal powerhouse and taking the repercussion is possible, but we won’t come out unscathed.

I dreamed of nuking that entire family, but I didn’t for the sake of my mother. She wants their blood on her hands.

I don’t want my little Irisa to get caught in the crossfire and become collateral damage.

I know Irisa has plans for Kirk; he was a child from Sunflower Home, after all. She seems to despise everything associated with that place.

“What do you mean?” she asks, lips pursing.

“Why are you concerned about Kirk?” I retort, practically spitting out his name.

She shakes my arms off her back and steps away, hands on her hips and grumbling under her breath.

She mumbles, “Doesn’t matter anymore. He’s a dead-man walking; so, all those nights are moot.”

They aren’t figments of my imagination anymore. The pendulum of time stops between two heartbeats, a resemblance of a crossroad facing equally ominous creatures.

One is not lesser evil than the other.

Infestations of spider cracks race towards my face, threatening to shatter my composure to _not_ wrap a hand around her neck and chain her to the side of my bed.

Then, no one can take her from me. Not my mother, not Norine, and certainly not _Kirk_.

“You thought about a man before you sleep,” I say, frank.

She sputters, explaining with flustered redness on her cheeks. “I think about you too—”

“Silence,” I hiss hoarsely, “You will only think about me from now on.”

She mutters with a bashful blush, “You’re always on my mind. It’s just that seeing him again makes me mad.”

A shiver riots down her body. She squeals, dumbfounded by the astonishing change of temperature. She shakes her arms aggressively to warm them and toss her body to my chest, which my arms readily opened for her.

She probes through clattering teeth, “What if I fall through the ice?”

“Can you swim?”

She clears her throat and squeaks, “No.”

I massage her shoulder, pushing heat through the thick coat and rubbing her shivering back diligently. I consider the revoltingly gentle side of me to be her creation because I refuse to believe a monster like me is capable of kindness.

“No better time to learn,” I say placidly, enjoying the tranquility from the fluttering iridescent green veils above us.

“You’ll let me drown?”

“It’s below zero,” I goad, hoping she’d take the obvious bait.

She does.

“Would you die for me?” she tests naively.

I feel discontented when the answer stays on my tongue as if the bitter aftertaste put roots there.

“No,” I lie.

The lie is easy, but the heartbeat after is viciously raw.

She stands on her toes, cupping my cheek with a smile. I angle down, pressing my lips to her waiting ones as she hums happily.

“I don’t want you to live for me either,” she whispers.

I reckon unconvincingly, “I live for myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

Silva is generous.

I made a passing comment about how I never got to make a recipe that is known to be comfort food. That recipe has been floating in my head since my landlord was found dead, and everything else prevented me from making it.

Namely, Silva’s immensely barbaric presence.

Everything I do seemed to revolve around him no matter how small the ties are. I did wonder if being knocked down the hill messed up my head, then I realize Silva was just a man doing everything he _legally_ can to possess me.

He’s reasonable most of the time, caring in his own way, and very generous with me.

I don’t need premium gadgets and copper kitchenware—for fuck’s sake, I didn’t even know copper was that expensive compared to stainless steel.

Ivor had dropped off disturbingly fresh ingredients that can’t be found during weather like now in Norway. I’ve seen Ivor a handful of times. He’s Silva’s shadow and devoted shield.

Cooking is easier said than done. The mixer is light and simple, but the whisk is _intense_. So strong that the batter sails through the air, taking my heart into my throat and pieces of my soul along the journey to Silva.

It’s comically slow when the batter flies through the air, but the panic in my head is a hysterical carousel.

Is this what ‘life flashing before my eyes’ mean?

I watch unabashedly as the sticky batter splashes on his naked chest, creeping down his grooved muscles and between his hard abs as trails of creamy batter seep inside the low-hanging waistband.

I’m afraid to look him in the eyes. They haunt and tempt me to get on my knees.

So, who knows what’ll happen if I look at him and see the viscid batter touching the muscles that I want to run my tongue over.

I’m _not_ getting salmonella.

“Irisa,” he purrs with suppressed ire.

I’m in trouble. I hastily throw the mixer into the bowl and leave it on the kitchen island. As the batter spills on the monochrome marble, I can physically feel his glare on my forehead.

An unwise decision, but it’s too late.

I scrape my palms on my clothes, rubbing the clamminess away as I gather my courage.

“Come,” he orders while extending his hand.

I wish my impulsivity didn’t surpass commonsense. “No—”

I put my weight on the other foot and contemplate the risks in one breath. I’m accustomed to Silva and the slightest changes in his demeanor, so it’s easy to detect the amalgamation of sweltering tyranny in the air.

“No?” he tests amusingly.

Stare any harder, and he’ll set me on fire. My scalp itches, but I don’t scratch it. My hands are a bit useless at the moment, being under his scrutiny and all.

“Don’t be mad,” I plead hastily.

“I’m not,” he intones. “You’re cleaning this mess.”

A fire wakens a deep hunger in my churning stomach. I swallow again and square my shoulders to face Silva heads on about an accident. I’m acting like I committed a big crime when it’s just raw batter.

My breath dives back into my lungs as I look up. He’s in front of me with dirtied abs and unpleased gray eyes. The batter covers his scent, but his bare torso still pushes my body with a smoldering shiver.

Wordlessly, he snatches my wrist and pulls me after him. His long strides break my small, clumsy steps.

I don’t want to be like this. It’s terrifying to know that a part of me is changing; for the better or worse, I’m scared to find out.

Silva is a kaleidoscopic painter when he colors over my previously dull and tedious life. My life before was a mush of mind-numbing days that blended together. After meeting Silva, I remember every vibrant moment like explosive fireworks.

I run into his broad back and stumble backward as the hand on my wrist stables me. I blink harshly to glance around his burly arm; the massive bathroom strike daggers into my heart as I shuffle my feet self-consciously.

He inclines his head as gray eyes darken menacingly. I step inside and flinch at the sound of a bolting lock.

“Strip,” he commands, his hand coming to hold my waist and skim a finger under the shirt.

Obedience consumes me as I lift my arms over my head; he pulls the shirt off and kisses the back of my head.

_A reward_ , I vaguely discern.

“I’m not dirty,” I mumble dizzily.

He hums, discarding the apprehension weighing my arms. His thumb slides inside my pants, guiding them down with a roguish chuckle and tease my trembling thighs on its way down.

My pants pool around my ankles. He offers a hand again for me to take, and I do while being reminded that I’m not a princess.

His chivalry is a mockery.

He treats me as if I’m made of reinforced glass; he’s rough when he sees fit and gentle when needed. It’s a perfect balance he’s worked out, and I don’t know if I should bring it up to his attention.

Why?

He knows what he’s doing, so there’s no point in telling him.

My bra strap hits my toes as it lands on the polished tile. Silly shyness adheres to my skin, and I wrap my arms around my breasts while the pebbled nipples tighten from the cool air.

Silva ushers me into the glassed shower stall. The cold floor sends chills up my spine as I step in, and the fancy showerhead’s sensor activates the water with preset temperature. Despite it being warm water, it still startles me when a vicious shiver rolls through my body.

His burly chest press on my back, taking the hot water away and kissing my wet hair. My fingers twist nervously while heat spreads lethargically in my stomach.

His big cock twitches above my ass.

This is his plan; to trap me in the shower stall and amplify my embarrassment with nowhere to hide.

“Get to work,” he commands with a malevolent curl of tone.

I distract my erratic heart with a detailed glance around the stall; bottles of fragranced products, a new scrubber, and—

Are those gold-laced rose petals in a fancy jar?

“Do I have to do everything for you?” he asks, but he’s not looking for an answer.

His inked arm reaches over my shoulder, snagging the bottle of body wash and snapping the cap open with too much vigor. He squirts the gel on my spine with an uncanny slide that curves down my ass.

I choke a squeal of surprise as I keep one hand on my breasts and the other rubbing the soap away. He aims a swat on my plump ass, the sound echoing over the pouring water.

I want to spin around and demand to be let out of this humiliating situation, but I’d have to face his thick, throbbing cock. Then, I’d be enticed to suck.

Sounds of splashing water and dispersed floral aroma in dense condensation, I release my clenched teeth and breathe in shakily.

It’s too tempting to not look at him. Even then, I’m too slow for him as his rough hands clasp on my arms to twist me around.

The scowl on his handsome face sails over my head. I’m more fixated on the streaks of water running soapy trails down his grooved abs, mimicking the sensual travel of melted honey while it slithers down his sharp hips.

Oh, yes. He’s hard, leaking cum on the swollen tip, and _huge_.

I remember sucking his thick cock, but it wasn’t _this_ big.

Dizzy humming fades into my ears as my tongue swells with dryness. The captivating desire burns through my veins as my hand wrap around the thick shaft.

This is absolutely my little pussy’s fault. I feel too empty when my virgin hole pulses for him to stretch me wide open. I want his calloused fingers rubbing my tiny clit and make me cum on his cock.

“You’re playing with fire,” he rasps, but he doesn’t stop me.

I want to be burned.

I rub my slippery hand on him and test out the weight of his cock in my hand. The bead of cum dribbles down the pulsing vein while I stroke up the trail and thumb the leaking tip.

Flexing my fingers, I try to wrap them around the thick base. He’s just too big, and my pussy protests with a mean twitch. It’s going to be perfect when he presses inside.

He cups my cunt hotly, a finger sliding into my tight hole with ease as his palm digs onto my clit. My knees buckle, and my hand clenches around his fat cock. Silva purrs a sneeringly loud growl into my ears.

“Please?” I whisper bashfully, unsure as to what I want from him.

I want him to do a lot of things to my body, but I don’t want to be too greedy.

What if he doesn’t like that?

I peer at him through my wet lashes to his amused gray eyes. I push down on his hand, rocking my hips to find the small sponginess to make me cum.

My thighs clamp on his wrist before he could move away, hopelessness hitting a cry in my throat as I shake my head pleadingly.

He bends to my eye-level and stares unnervingly calm; Silva’s silence conquers my voice. I nibble on my bottom lip for courage and kiss him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against my lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	30. Chapter Thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

I toss her wet body on the massive bed. Her hair dampens the duvet as she turns to climb on her knees and crawl away from me.

Her plump ass bounces, presenting her sodden pussy to my keen eyes while she scrambles away. My hand snap around her leg and yank her back to me as I keel on the soft mattress.

Her ass propping up in the air, I shove my face to her drooling cunt and inhale her pungent scent. I’m a greedy and perverse man, but she already knows that.

She fights me on instinct as I lap on her honeyed juices, flicking my tongue around the sensitive bud before a wicked suck.

Her spine arches beautifully as she gyrates her hips. I suck harder, teething softly against her clit and taking in a lungful of her luscious pussy.

Drips of delectable slick gush through her tiny hole, and plugging it with my tongue can do so much when she’s writhing uncontrollably. She needs something bigger to plug her leaking cunt, and I’d be an awful man to not offer help.

I don’t care if she wants it or not.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I planned the day when I take her virginity. I wanted to lay her on my bed at the comfort of our home, spread her legs and eat her pussy until her cum drips down my chin, and slowly feed her hungry little hole with my fat cock.

I also planned around my impatience, and I was right to be mindful.

My self-control is already out the window. The details of the plan are foggy; I’m not confident enough to take a step back and think about what I need to do next to lessen her pain.

She’s going to hurt, that’s a given. There is not a chance she can take my cock without discomfort.

An iniquitous voice whispers in my head with frantic heaves of temptation to just bend her over and take what’s mine. She can’t overpower me, nor will I let her escape from breaking apart on my cock.

Irisa squeals frantically as she fists the duvet. Flows of warm cum ooze over my tongue as her hard clit pulses erratically. The sensual release wreaks havoc on her delicate body as she begs so pitifully scared.

Her face nuzzles into the duvet and sobs distressingly when shivers skip over her flushed skin. I want to kiss them away, but I turn to the side and sink my teeth onto her ass’ plumpness.

A little pain can bring her out of her daze. I want her to be aware of the feeling when my cock splits her open for the first time.

I flip her over and climb between her trembling thighs. She sniffles as tears roll messily while her hands dive down to hide her parted cunt. Her embarrassment only fuels the fervent desire to fully _own_ her.

I haven’t done anything remotely unkind to her, yet she’s already crying. She’s indeed a strange girl. I take her wrist and bring her hand to my mouth. I lick the stringy cum off her rigid fingers.

“I can tie you up,” I suggest quietly.

That should give me free rein of her luscious body; the problem is with her need for independence when she’s had it for so long. It’ll cause more damage than my patience can handle.

I’m teetering on a tightrope between being the uncompromising mafia boss and her Silva. It’s a constant battle of wanting to dominate her, to smother her freedom and keep her as my mindlessly obedient little girl.

These changes take time, and she’s making great progress.

“I’m a—” she says and stops abruptly.

“I know.” I move her hands to the bed and ghost a finger over each pulse.

She takes the hint and curls her small fingers into the duvet, taking it as her support mechanism for what’s about to come.

My cock is intimidating as it twitches insistently over her soft stomach, and it certainly looks impossible to fit every inch inside her.

I wouldn’t know if I don’t force her to go past her limits.

Securing my cock in one hand, I pull her sodden fold open with a crude tug and watch the little untouched hole throb fitfully.

She’ll look better when her pussy is gaping with my cum oozing out.

I hold the swollen tip against the slicked hole and nudge an inch inside the coiling hot walls. My cock pops through the tight ring of muscle, and contemptuous hunger rages through my arms as I push in despite her squeak of pain.

Irisa is supple, dainty, and too fucking tight.

“Silva,” she cries pleadingly. “I don’t—it’s too much.”

Filthy little liar.

It’s only the tip; there’s a lot more for her to take.

I slap a hand over her mouth, muffling her sweet moans as I watch her pussy swallow around me. The sticky squelching gets louder when I slide deeper, feeding her tiny muscles half of my fat cock.

Her leg kicks, jolting aggressively as she drags her thighs around my waist. A halo of beauty glows on her flushed skin and enhancing her exquisiteness through her tears.

Distress coerces her shoulders to protect her neck as she pulls the duvet over her chest to hide. She’s a fragile thing, so alluringly easy to break.

I set her thighs on the bed and mark a wordless warning on her trembling skin. Her neglected clit is swollen with need; I press a thumb there and lightly rub to alleviate the pressure.

She mewls from under the duvet.

_There’s my little girl_ , I muse.

Her pussy spasms, allowing me to sink deeper to relish the slurping tightness. Her virgin hole is so damn stretched like I’m about to split her in half if I’m not careful. Rolling her wet clit between my fingers, I thrust every thick inch inside and pinch her clit simultaneously.

Her little pussy seizes tightly, locking the base of my cock with a strong suck as waves of hot slick smear around my fat cock.

She sobs brokenly as she shakes through her unexpected release. The strain in her tense muscles to accommodate me is admirable, but it’s gratifying for me to be her first.

I clench my jaw with exertion and focus on getting my control back. Her coiling pussy slurps messily as the sounds create a barrier to the thrumming noises in my ears.

I drag her sensitive walls as I ease my hips back, but those spongy muscles cling with needy squelches.

She peeks from the top of the duvet with a shy gaze, tears stain her cheeks and glistening in her eyes. I thrust in firmly, taking her by surprise as she cries wantonly.

“It’s okay,” she mumbles, “I’m okay.”

How considerate.

There’s no reason to hold back now. I brace my knees firmly on the bed, gripping her supple thighs harshly for support when I roll my cock back into her willing cunt.

I fuck her drenched hole with abandon, and each vigorous thrust sends spiking thrills onto my spine just by having her filthy cunt spread demandingly around my thick cock.

She moans loudly, writhing with wide eyes as she trembles violently. I throw the duvet away and lean over her quivering body to press my chest on her bouncing tits. Her arms come around my neck with a plea of my name on her pink lips.

I hammer in her puffy pussy, angling the thrusts to grind her clit. Each pummeling thrust slams her erratic heartbeats to mine, and she rocks her undulating hips to take my cock deeper.

She kisses my neck, nipping on my pulse to stop her lewd mewls. She can mark me however she likes as long as I get to do the same to her body.

With the sensation of her drenched pussy slurping on my cock and her little clit grinding on me, they compete and lose to each other at times.

She squeaks, panting heavily over my neck as she tightens her arms. That’s the hint I need to grind down on her clit with a harsh tug and aim the next thrust to that sensitive, spongy spot.

The dripping hole seizes too tightly, locking me inside her coiling muscles and milking my cock with strong sucks. It doesn’t matter how much she squirms through her release or how soaked she is, my cock thickens with a haze of crippling indulgence.

Her filthy little pussy is mine to ruin, and I’ll be damned if her sensitivity gets in my way.

She whines shamelessly.

I grab her jaw and turn her lips to slant over mine. I kiss her with the taste of her pussy on my tongue, and her mortification makes me chuckle.

Thick globs of cum ooze from my throbbing cock, and the snug stretch of her hole can’t keep the creaminess inside her twitching walls. Viscous whiteness drips in long strings out her flushed pussy, and I’m not satisfied.

My cum-stained cock springs out her gaping hole; reddened, swollen, dirtied—and so fucking perfect.

“On your knees, little girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

His cum spurts out my sore pussy as I shove my burning face into the hot duvet. The cursed attention from his intrusive gaze lingers on the mess that he made, and the slippery cum slithers to my sensitive clit when he swats my ass.

I jolt in pain with a whimper. He gropes the inflamed cheek with rough fingers, branding fingerprints on my skin while his tender praises circle in my ears.

He kneads my ass, and I know what’s coming. His hands spread them aggressively wide, enabling the slippery cum to pour out as the heat of his gaze strikes consuming humiliation into my weak bones.

Why does he have to stare at the sticky mess so close? Why did he have to sniff my pussy like a pervert?

I hope he doesn’t eat my pussy when it’s at this state. I don’t know how I’ll survive the mortification of knowing we’re going to kiss after his lips smear with our mixed cum.

A breath of relief comes as he shuffles to his knees with his slippery cock nudging my gaping hole. The daunting sensation returns with a vengeance and kicks my heart against my ribs.

It was a lot to take him in; I thought I was going to faint from the burning stretch. He was so deep that the tip of his swollen cock touched a sensitive spot.

I scream into the duvet as his fat cock breaches my tiny hole, slipping inside and stretching the tender walls with crude indifference. A squelch of gushing cum filters through my ears, dragging my dignity through the mud as he flexes his firm fingers around my hips.

I string together words to ask him to wait, but he fucks me with a rumbling chuckle. Silva continues the game of teasing me with repetitions of deliberate drags and ruthless thrusts that sends confounding sparks into my clit.

His smothering stare on the curve of my spine travels to my ass, staying on the obscene stretch of my pussy around his thick cock. I wonder if he’d go as far as taking pictures or videos, and I wouldn’t put it past him that he didn’t think about it.

His fingers dig harder into my hips as he drags me to meet his hasty thrusts. Slurring moans fall to the duvet whenever the pummeling tip would find the squishy muscle in my quivering cunt.

He’s so rough, and sparks of pain light up my skin as black dots form in the corners of my eyes.

Our cum bathes my spongy walls like stains of sin. It can’t be cleansed when his vicious pace is adamant on making my pussy swallow every frothing drop.

As one hand leaves my hips, a sense of panic washes into my heart as I barely register the sound of his voice praising me for being a good girl.

He rolls my sodden clit between his nimble fingers and toys the bud until my voice cracks.

“What’s the matter?” he croons vilely, “Don’t want it anymore?”

The pressure in my stomach can’t handle him using me as his fuck-toy; it’s hurling hazy exhaustion at every part of my body. The agitated aching hurts as he pinches with a slippery stroke.

Watercolor black blotches spread behind my eyes as I fuck myself on his cock and hope to find release, but it’s more agonizing than I thought. Degrading tremors scores down my body, slipping my hazy mind into a moment of incoherent blackness.

Silva doesn’t care about the fierce trembling; he pounds my drenched hole like a man obsessed. His hips slap my ass, fucking the cum onto his shaft to create webbed strings that break too loudly.

“Please,” I slur debauchedly, “No more—I can’t!”

Maybe he said something, but my ears are ringing noisily. I uncurl my toes and focus on breathing as I take his impaling thrusts. I just take the assaulting pleasure and hope he can have mercy on my body; it’s my first time, and the swelling pleasure is frightening.

I glance at him over my shoulder, and my throat closes.

A sheen of glistening sweat adheres to his muscled body, the grooved hips rocking in tandem with tightening abs while obsidian ink dances on the sharp muscle lines.

My needy cunt squeezes, slurping greedily for more cum. It’s something that only I can have.

I’m his special little girl, and he’s my big, controlling mafia boss.

All mine.

It took me years to start believing what I say is true, but the faintest thread of doubt erases the success. I wonder if I can still piece together the fragments of my charade when the inevitable happens.

Silva is too perceptive; he knows something is going to happen and is prepared for it. Will he forgive me for it? Would he still want me to be his good girl again?

I don’t want to let him go. I’ve finally found someone who can make me feel normal—like I’m not a walking tragedy.

I just want to feel happy, and Silva makes me happier than anything in the world.

I’m so greedy. I want to keep him in my life while knowing he’ll hate me in the end.

The warmth in my stomach, the airy breaths that I take, the irrevocably skipped heartbeats—everything is my first experience.

It sounds wrong.

His gruff voice says, “You think too much.”

He flicks my clit, inciting a surprised squeal as I shiver dully. His pace slows to a lethargic grind, nudging the leaking tip to the spongy spot.

Silva flips me over and presses his chest to mine. I can feel the strong heartbeats; mine tries to mirror his and failing miserably. I pant breathlessly against his neck while he snakes an arm under my spine to arch my body to his.

There’s no space between us, just our hot skin and sticky cum.

“What’s it going to take for you to hate me?” I ask carefully.

He scrutinizes my words for a stilled moment as he grinds his cock through the slippery hole. A loud growl vibrates from his chest and trickles into the vein in his neck.

Silva ducks to close his teeth around my neck, the same place where he had bitten me before.

Spiraling pain singes my skin as the wound throbs in protest, but he pulls away before the skin breaks. His hand comes to replace his teeth, curbing blistering heat on the bite mark with the calloused surface of his palm.

“Strange way to phrase your question,” he supposes. “Do you mean _when_ you will cross my line?”

“When?” I test, confused.

“It’s only a matter of time before you’re going to be a bad girl,” he reckons sharply. “Am I wrong?”

I purse my lips and swallow the anxiety clumping in my throat as his hand squeezes harder. My drooling pussy tightens too when I choke out a wheezed breath.

“What’s going to happen if I lie?” I whisper.

I won’t necessarily lie because it’s my promise to him, but maybe I could tweak some words around.

“You’ll know after you lie,” he says ominously.

“You’re not going to ask me?” I search his gray eyes, but he hides his thoughts too well.

“I’m letting you do what you need. When you’re done, and only after you’re finished, you will give yourself fully to me.”

My lips part to argue just as I catch a glimpse of calamitous evil darkening the grayness.

That wasn’t a request but a vow of sacred tolerance.

“Are you mad at me?” I blink away the film of tears.

His languid thrusts squish my clit delicately like an angel’s kiss while the devil’s smile eases through the cracks of his façade.

“What do you think?” he counters teasingly.

He fucks in short rolling strokes, and a small yet quaking orgasm comes. Tears topple over with his name on my tongue; he steals the plea with his lips.

My little pussy coils around his cock, milking his cum with rigid efforts as I hazily recognize the iniquitous flash of fondness across his eyes.

Silva press his hips flush to mine as his fat cock thickens while sitting heavily inside me. My tight hole struggles to accommodate his thickness again once his cum starts to pour out in copious spurts.

Our mingling cum pools on the sullied bed, but neither of us cares as he kisses me with deliberate kindness.

I think he cares for me in his own twisted, doting way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

I brush the smooth contour of her cheeks; my touch traces the softness like an avid artist as the vulnerable silence lingers in her sleeping body.

It’s easy to convince myself that I have Irisa, and I did at one point—which, until recently, doubts begin to lay roots of paranoia in my head.

I’ve decided to let her have free rein, but what she knows and what I know are two completely different things.

The plane rocks unsteadily through the turbulences before the wheels bounce on the runway. Our trip to Norway ends once the plane comes to a stop, but the peacefulness stays as Irisa mumbles softly.

She shifts and buries her face on my arm, breathing gently and ignoring the raging storm outside. It’s pitch-black as white bouts of belligerent snow smacks on the glass. The dense clouds cluster together in a mass of gray that wouldn’t move despite the strong wind.

This is categorized as a blizzard now.

“Boss,” Ivo says, quiet and vigilant.

His eyes flick to Irisa and pause a long second before presenting me with a satellite phone. I take the bulky device and dismiss him; Ivo moves to the front of the plane and sits by the door.

Irisa shifts again, and I take her head off my shoulder. Her head bobs while I secure her slumped body to not touch the cold window.

The blinking light on the tower catches my attention, and for safety, I close the window shade. I answer the call while pulling up the blanket to her chin.

The man on the other line laughs.

_“Holy fuck, you answered.”_ Decaying Sable’s leader crackles.

I reply to his unnecessary commentary with silence. He groans, muttering about my lack of greeting and how I need to stop holding on to grudges. 

_“Y’know,”_ he begins with smacking lips, _“Sometimes my guys come to us with weird fetishes, but he needs his bones to be useful to us.”_

I let that man, that deplorable serial killer, go with a broken clavicle and a limp, but he was alive. That’s his warning to keep away from my Irisa, and I don’t care if he’s a member of Decaying Sable.

I can take on that group of lunatics and wipe away their existences.

They lack in manpower, but they don’t lose in insanity. Few can have their level of brutality and can stomach what they do.

Therefore, they are what I need for the pending disaster. Irisa has her own nightmares to deal with, but I can make it easier for her.

She needs me for _this_.

“You have a day to return him,” I reckon over the satellite phone.

_“Return?”_ the man mutters, _“He doesn’t have a receipt.”_

He interrupts before I could get a word in, _“Before you go gun-blazing and kidnap him again or take another collarbone from others, let’s call it even.”_

“You’re in no position to demand terms,” I warn as my eyes wander to Irisa.

She’s too short to be seen from the seat, but the overhead light shines her shadow on the side of the plane.

_“I was thinking of a little quid pro quo,”_ he insists. _“I fucked up your guns, you added to your bone collection—an eye for an eye completion.”_

“Lex talionis is far from balanced,” I hiss lowly, careful to not wake Irisa.

My weapons are more valuable than a worthless human collarbone. I don’t care if that serial killer joined those lunatics before or after I met Irisa, but his problem is with me; the Sables can leave when they still have a choice.

However, they are useful. I left him alive and crawling back to his group just for the phone call. I will wring them dry and reap the benefits.

_“Okay, fine,”_ the man on the phone gripes, _“You want me to mail him to you on expedited shipping?”_

“You can keep him, and I won’t come after you for his transgression,” I propose.

_“Fuck he did to you?”_ Decaying Sable’s leader asks with gurgling phlegm. _“I thought it was just some stalking on your girl or some fucked-up wooing shit.”_

That is exactly what got him under my scalpel. He was stalking my Irisa, and if I left him alone, he would’ve escalated. That man is a serial killer and admitted he hates Irisa, so I’m not willing to let that hatred build until it explodes.

He would kill Irisa.

A threat to her life is a threat to mine.

“I want Kirk Lenkov gone,” I direct icily, “With any means you see fit.”

He mumbles the name, questioning the familiarity as he snorts.

“Russian ambassador Lenkov’s son,” I clarify with an edge in my tone.

The man on the line whistles and laughs maniacally, but his behavior isn’t put off by the potential danger and pressure from both country’s government.

I’m proven to be correct on my assessment once again: this man lives up to Decaying Sable’s reputation.

I believe his type of evil comes from genetics.

_“Russians bring a lot of heat,”_ he notes.

I counter promptly, “Since when are you afraid of getting burned?”

Kirk and that serial killer have caused enough stress on Irisa. I want them gone with one strike. Two birds with one stone; I don’t have to raise a finger to demolish their existences.

Sable’s leader jibes nonchalantly, _“The others?”_

He’s talking about my father and his wife. The wife is another ambassador’s daughter, so my father was able to climb ranks quickly with her as his wife.

“Collateral damage,” I insist harshly.

Every second they are breathing are seconds that my mother is in pain, spiraling into manic vengeance to continue the vicious cycle. My mother won’t be at peace until they’re dead.

And for Irisa, Kirk must have done something to her because nothing good has come out of Sunflower Home—the place where she’s afraid of even if she doesn’t say it.

The man utters, _“You ever think about us? We’re not superheroes; we don’t have ten lives.”_

I close my eyes, straining my ears to listen for the raging blizzard. “The missiles will be complimentary.”

Those missiles that the casino owner, Piero, stole and paid the price for; I never had the chance to sell them. Too much heat on the weapons.

My confidential sources in government departments picked up on chatter that the missiles are on the red list for close monitoring.

_“Maybe one might accidentally come to you,”_ Sable’s leader sputters laughingly.

I have no doubt Decaying Sable will keep their words. That group runs on carnage and adrenaline; taking on the Russian government increases the stakes, and that type of calamity won’t be passed on.

I fire back, “Then, our status quo will return.”

I would prefer if my empire is no longer in contact with the Decaying Sable, but if this man wants to go against me, then I will gladly take his challenge.

_“Turn on the news, and we’ll wave at you,”_ the man says before the dial tone comes.

I stare down at the bulky device with impassive calmness.

I’m not putting all my confidence in Sable’s chaotic ventures; I’m going to prepare and expect mishaps to keep my empire from the Russian government's counter-attacks.

I walk back to the seat and see Irisa looking at me with curious eyes.

She blinks owlishly.

She heard the conversation, but she most likely doesn’t know the gist of it. Then again, only a few possibilities are coming from Kirk’s name and ‘collateral damage’ in the discussion.

I state plainly, “I’m doing it for you.”

She’s not angry, upset, happy, or relieved—she’s unbothered.

“Thank you,” she says, and I’m reading too much into her words.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I question with debatable cynicism.

She doesn’t know how to mask the ominous connotation of hateful gratitude, but I can’t deny the appreciating purr in my throat.

“I hate Kirk,” she intones quietly. “He was always the favored one at the home. Kirk made the children, the ‘sisters,’ and everyone turned against me like I’m the bad child. I was miserable there.”

“Were you the bad child?” I crook a brow at her silence as she stands from the seat to march towards me.

Her arm curls into my elbow, laying her forehead there as she sniffles quietly. She turns and meets Ivo’s eyes, but he conscientiously breaks the contact and prepares the steps.

“No, I don’t think so,” she mumbles.

I remark as I take her with me towards the door, “You were.”

She scoffs and shivers when the fierce wind blows into the plane. The aircraft hangar illuminates the steps while I guide her down carefully; Ivo waits by the black car and opens the backseat for Irisa.

Her pace halts at the door with her back turned to me. I stand closer to place a hand on the small of her back while she peers at me over her shoulder.

“The ‘sisters’ think I’m a bad kid even when I didn’t do anything.”

I wonder what she _did_ do.

Following her into the car, I grab her hand and interlace our fingers.

“Movie night?” I offer, and I win her over easily.

She nods vigorously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

* * *

It’s been several weeks since we returned from Norway, and it’s been too quiet.

I like spending time with Silva in his home. He went above and beyond to accommodate me despite telling him I like it.

He often deals with business in his office and out of the house. I don’t ask him what he did during those times.

He doesn’t say to protect me, and I trust his way of protecting me.

Keeping me in the dark sounds unfair when I have to tell him everything if he asks, but the mafia is a world that’s too dangerous for an insignificant girl like me.

Silva makes it a habit of staying in bed until I wake up to give me the first kiss of the day, then he would have breakfast with me until he needs to leave for work. He’d come home at odd times to surprise me before we’d have dinner together.

I won’t lie and say I like the domesticity at first.

Being sold by my biological parents to Sunflower Home, spending a miserable time there, and bought by the ‘adoptive’ parents—not once did I feel a sense of belonging.

There was no abuse anywhere; I just exude usefulness. I’m a means for my parents to get out of mountainous debt, Sunflower Home sees me as property to flip for double the money they spent to buy me, and the botanist couple bought me as an accessory to their picturesque happiness.

Not once did I get a chance to sit down and eat dinner with someone.

When things were starting to fall into a pattern with Silva, a sense of normalcy that I crave—Norine calls me from an untraceable number for a meeting.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I say to Norine.

She tips her head, gesturing me to follow her to a more secluded area. Behind us are industrial warehouses, and they’re massive enough to create long shadows that meets with the dense tree line.

“So?” I question, stopping on the grass and examine the quiet surrounding. “What do you need?”

I told Silva that I’m meeting Norine the moment she called anonymously. She’d do the same if she was in my shoes.

She’s a sworn police officer, and I’m Silva’s valued possession; we’re never supposed to be in the same breathing distance.

Norine and I were in Sunflower Home together, she knows what type of person I am and the lengths I’ll go to achieve a goal. She surely knows about the man I’ve been using to get rid of nuisances, and that serial killer is as useful as he can be.

Now that I think about it, I never bothered to remember his name even though I’ve sat by his vegetative state for some time.

That’s fine; he’s run out of use for me. I need to discard him before he brings Silva trouble.

“We’re going to talk as _Sol_ and _Irisa_ ,” Norine spits out as she turns to me. “For now, I’m not Norine, the cop.”

I adjust my coat and pull up the hood to fight off the brittle cold wind. The phone in my pocket jolts against my hipbone as I’m careful to not touch it.

I have Silva on the line listening in because I don’t want secrets between us. After our domestic normalcy, I would feel this strange sense of guilt in my throat when I have an inclination of not telling him what’s on my mind.

Like I was deliberately hiding something from him even if it’s a typical thought about a flying bird.

I told him Norine wants a meeting with me, and I gave him the location too. He didn’t hide the fact that he’s going to be watching me from a distance.

Norine clears her throat with lips peeling into a snarl. “What are you planning for Kirk?”

“What do you mean?” I ask naively, and I appreciate her spontaneity to get to the gist.

“The FBI confirmed in-house threats to Russian ambassador Lenkov,” she remarks with a glare.

News travels fast.

I woke up on the private plane when Silva moved me off him, and I heard the conversation he had with someone on the phone. I pieced together everything with common sense, and Norine just confirmed what Silva insinuated.

Kirk is not going to live for long, and his family will be collateral damage.

“He’s doing what he does best: making me happy,” I say through a smile.

“By taking on the Russian government?” she mocks. “Is Silva also a means to an end? What will happen when he’s useless to you? You’ll kill him too?”

“I never killed anyone,” I deny airily as I watch clumps of snow falling from the pine trees.

Norine immediately hits back. “You poisoned the water well at Sunflower Home; everyone died.”

Memories of that faithful day resurface; everyone was toppling over, gasping for air, and foaming at the mouth after breakfast. I remember using a pillowcase to take some rocks from the sealed-off mining site not far from Sunflower Home and dumping them to the bottom of the water well with the intention of making them sick.

Their deaths weren’t in the plan, but it wasn’t all bad either because I was going to get picked up by the ‘adoptive’ parents the next day.

“Accusations need proof.” I shrug.

“You were smiling when the children were suffocating,” she hisses as she stomps forward.

I march to meet her halfway with a condemnatory remark, “It’s a shame you didn’t let Kirk drink it too, or we wouldn’t be having a conversation about him right now.”

“It won’t be long until we link something to you, and you’ll be imprisoned,” Norine whispers as her jaw clenches to quell an ire sigh. “I’m not ‘Sol’ anymore. My name is Norine, and I’m a police officer sworn to protect and serve.”

I contest critically, “Yet, you know I’m with Silva. You’re not doing anything about it.”

“I was hoping he’d kill you. I’d finally be able to sleep at night,” she admits, unabashed and resolute.

My fingers dig into my palms with vexing pain as I lash back, “Those are your demons; struggles you’re born with— _you_ can’t turn off homicidal ideation.”

“You encouraged me to torture and kill animals. I could’ve been a normal kid,” Norine retaliates.

The gate of homicidal thoughts.

I admit it was fun watching her struggle to accept the bloodthirsty side of her as a child. The Sunflower Home’s adults always scold Norine for having animal blood on her clothes, but they didn’t care where it came from as long as it wasn’t from the children.

Broken children can’t sell.

I jerk my eyes to the trees behind her while containing my anger. “Don’t blame me. I thought we were friends having a conversation back then.”

“What did I ever do to you? What did Kirk and I do to deserve this?” she asks with defeated begging.

It’s pathetic when she adds, “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

I enlighten her with a dry chuckle, “Weren’t you and Kirk the ones who told me that being myself is why my parents left me?”

That was when the seed of hatred got planted in my heart.

Sometimes it’s all it takes.

Norine holds my eyes with the tempestuous waves of a tsunami, and the rage fiddles the curl of mania in her body just as the uncaring gust of wind sails between us.

“That’s fucking petty. We were children—”

I snap scratchily, “I was too.”

Acidity reflects in her eyes; her self-loathing can’t outrun the anger we mutually share. Her hand jerks behind her and aim a gun to my face, a finger readily on the trigger with unbroken hesitation in her action.

“I underestimated how deep-rooted your unadulterated psychopathy is,” she says with a despairing smile. “We’re codependent abominations.”

A strident sound pierces into the hollow sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Silva

* * *

By the time I get to Irisa, she’s nowhere to be seen.

All that's left is Norine on the ground, blood seeping through her jacket and onto the snow. The spread of crimson trickles too quickly as the snow melts from her body heat. Silver nails impaled on her back in erratic patterns, but she’s still alive as her trembling hand blindly searches for her gun.

For a man with a limp and a missing collarbone, that serial killer took off after my Irisa rather quickly. He managed to break through my men’s formation and slipped into what was supposed to be a protected area.

He’s here for Irisa.

I have to find her before he gets his filthy hands on her. He chose a nail gun as a weapon, so he’s ready to torture her.

The Decaying Sable will answer to me when I take care of this mess. They can’t even keep an eye on their man; I don’t expect things to go well on the Russian government side.

I find the irregular footprints by the tree line and follow the rushed patterns. They guide me deeper through the dense trees, losing my presence from my men’s vicinity as I clench the gun in my hand.

The snow-veiled path and crowded trees tease my finger on the gun’s trigger. While the wind lowers the temperature around my neck, the rampant heat in my soaring blood clings to the fabric of my clothes.

I track the drops of blood on the snow and notice the distance that it splats on. Irisa is hurt, but it doesn’t seem like a big wound considering the lack of blood.

It can’t be from that man. The permanent limp that I gave him with a scalpel through his kneecap doesn’t allow him to make big strides.

I’m beginning to regret not crippling him when I had the chance. He doesn’t need to walk to get my message to Sable’s leader that I will collect the debt they owe me for the interrupted gun deal.

There’s a scream in the distance that rips through the trees, frightened and broken.

I race towards the sound as the image of Irisa, defenseless and scared, flashes in my mind. I try to abandon the mental image, but I fail every time as the blood trail grows with concerning amount.

Stale oxygen travels into my lungs before the scent of copper hits. Irisa is hurt more than I originally thought. I hiss under my breath and rush between the looming trees.

I lose track of where I am as I’m forced to stillness; the disturbed snow had spread the faded blood around, and a rusted nail tacked on a tree trunk.

She must have fallen. I can’t find where they went after. The snow is too disrupted to track, and there aren’t more blood drops.

A gunshot ricochets explosively over my head. I snap my attention to the direction and realize it’s coming from where Norine was lying. While I don’t want to give up this trail to find Irisa, I can’t ignore the possibility she ran back to Norine.

It’s human instinct to find safety; Norine has a gun, and Irisa needs protection.

Blistering heat tears through my legs as I run back and press my shoes harder on the sludge snow for friction. A broken branch snaps under my weight, but the echo of the gunshot still rings in my ears.

Bright lights mark the tree line as I sprint faster, and bursts of colors shred through porcelain whiteness. I jump back reflexively, avoiding the spirals of colors before the sight settles in my mind.

Norine and the man tussle on the ground, fighting for the nail gun while Norine’s back stains the snow with crimson.

I step closer to search for Irisa and find her on the ground, blood seeping through the tears of her coat. Her skin glares through the pants as they’re also ripped.

That man was not aiming his shots to render Irisa immobile; he was playing a game of perseverance with her to see how long she can endure his hunt.

I rush to her and kneel by her side to check the wounds. Her surprised gasp rings louder than the brawling duo on the ground, and Irisa couldn’t help but jerk away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I chide softly while grasping her arm to gauge the severity of the wound.

It’s a shallow cut from a well-controlled aim; the nail only sliced her skin enough to spill blood but not enough to stab into her muscles.

My hand slides under her arms and lift her trembling body. She steps forward, but I push her back to avoid the violence that’s happening.

Norine doesn’t seem to care or feel the pain on her body; the nails are pushed into her back like they’re her motivation to kill the man under her. She straddles the man’s chest, her left thigh on his underarm, and his other arm trapped behind her right knee.

She has his nail gun pointing at his bulging eye as she holds the writhing man still by the neck. Norine’s smiling, and a faint reminder of her words hit me when I was listening in on Norine and Irisa’s conversation.

Irisa smiled when children were dying, and I wonder if Norine was smiling too.

_“We’re codependent abominations.”_

That’s what Norine said to Irisa.

Norine looks like a curse; a fiend with fire-red hair and exhilaration dripping in her vicious grin.

Irisa gasps from my side, arms shaking as they detach from mine to step back from the horrid scene. I hold my arm out, blocking her from running to Norine as I keep a finger on my gun’s trigger.

Norine pulls on the nail gun. Each thudding nail pierces his face with her joyous giggles, bones snapping savagely while she doesn’t stop even after the man had stopped moving. Norine keeps firing the nails until it is sputtering air, yet her mania compels the need to bash his face with the gun itself.

She plops the bloody weapon on the pile of crimson snow beside her and tilts her face to the gray sky.

I wait with bated breath, watching closely to see if she’ll attack us in her state of delirium. Norine sighs and slouches exhaustedly. Danger radiates off her body, but she’s sluggish when she begins to stand up from the corpse.

“I did a lot of work to become ‘Norine’ and a sworn cop,” she complains hoarsely.

Norine cocks her head at us with red hair covering her face. She sways to stand while rubbing her palms on her pants to rid the blood.

Irisa whimpers softly; I step in front of her to be the physical barrier between them.

Norine flinches, eyes widening frighteningly fast, and lunges at us. The smell of blood thrusts into my lungs at the speed of her sprint, and the frenzy in her gaze feels like shrapnel grazing through my body.

She looks at me like she’s going to carve holes into my flesh and hollow out my organs, but that’s quickly replaced by cynic indecision when the first shriek of sirens come. It’s only a split second, but that’s enough time for me to shoot her at center mass.

She stumbles, falling in front of my shoes. Blood pours heavily out her gunshot wound, dissolving the snow as the light in her eyes dim.

I take a short step back and spin around to hold Irisa in my arms. My hand touches bitterly cold air.

Irisa stands mere feet from me with Norine’s gun securely between her small hands. Her fingers are in the wrong places as an amateur mistake, and the black barrel shakes mockingly.

Her juxtaposed weariness, anguish, regret, and contentment conquers the fleeting semblance of attachment to me.

She fires the gun with a thunderous sound.

Then, she smiles like she wants to say: _“I think I love you.”_

Searing pain thrives on the pained gasp as I fall to my knees. I press a cold hand to my chest, adhering pressure to the wound while blood cascades through my knuckles with no intention of letting me live.

Irisa drops the gun and walks away without looking back.

Before delayed confusion could scream at me to find out what the hell is this strange turn of events, Norine’s voice groans weakly with mirth.

She mutters, “Every step is a game piece to her; how involved you are with her is intentionally manipulated, that’s what she does best.”

My labored breaths sting the wound, but I manage to look over my shoulder at the woman who turned on her back.

Her eyes blur while she stares at me. “Irisa will say what you want to hear.”

The equilibrium shatters as I struggle to hold my weight. I slam a hand on the snow to let the hostile coldness be a wake-up call. Dizziness coerces my vision to spin and tilt in a way that churns my stomach.

I vaguely notice Ivo’s sprinting body from a distance when he shouts my name, but my senses are too dull to grasp clarity.

Norine chokes a bloodied laugh. “A tiger can't change its stripes, just like a liar’s inability to tell the truth.”

I realize, albeit disinterestedly, that I don’t _understand_ , nor do I _know_ Irisa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Irisa

_Seven Months Later_

* * *

Sometime before the Norway trip and after the gun in my hand weighing down my hesitation, I stopped fighting the dreams of a future with Silva.

In a dream of _maybe-maybe-maybe_ , I’d be able to say “I love you” without a liar’s tongue. Back then, I would wake up in Silva’s arms and couldn’t remember how to say “good morning” without detachment.

Now that I’m here, in this witness protection house, for seven months without Silva or the slightest whisper of how he’s doing—or if he’s even alive. I would open my eyes to peony wallpapers, a bed that doesn’t suit my body, and a sense of defensiveness.

“Can you breathe quietly?”

I slurp the smoothie loudly as I stare at the red-haired woman rubbing her head with a towel. Norine survived Silva’s bullet, but the scar didn’t heal properly when it got infected multiple times before it got better.

Norine turns to make her cup of morning coffee. Her tank top hides a portion of the scars on her back from the nail gun, and the white scars remind me of a constellation.

She pulled through surgery, fought her case on self-defense when she killed that serial killer to ‘protect’ me and convinced the court to be the live-in protection against Silva’s mafia empire.

I know she’s not here to protect me but rather to keep an eye on me if I were to do anything. Norine didn’t defend my case when I was offered witness protection, however, she didn’t fight to tell the judge about what truly happened.

I don’t need witness protection from Silva because despite shooting him, my heart knows he will never hurt me.

“You’re back early,” I note as I finish the smoothie.

Norine folds the towel over her shoulders and enjoys her coffee while leaning on the counter.

“A sewer pipe burst on my running path,” she says and chugs a mouthful of steaming coffee down her throat.

“No wonder it stinks.” I gag as another whiff of rancid stench moves through the living room.

I snap my fingers. “Where’s your partner?”

Norine wanders to the sink to wash her hands before flinging the moisture in a manner only a barbaric woman would do. She picks up an apple and takes a huge bite, considering her words carefully.

“The reason you accepted witness protection…” she begins with another bite into her scarlet apple. “Is it because you’re scared of Silva?”

“You can spend time with him and see for yourself.” I push the empty glass to the side and glance at the whipping ceiling fan.

It’s hot, the house has broken air conditioning, and we can’t open the window because of the sewage waste smell.

Whoever picked this tropical country to hide me from the mafia must be out of their mind. It’s hot, humid, and cheerful every day. Everyone is too joyful under the sun that can roast their epidermis without sunscreen.

“Your location is compromised,” Norine says truthfully. “Someone with internal access opened your file this week.”

“You think it’s Silva?” I ask, and I couldn’t stop a wave of delight swirling in my stomach.

I lived for seven months in the dark; no news, electronics, and outside contact. I don’t know what happened to Silva after I conveniently ‘ran’ into the first responders’ cruiser and explained how I shot Silva to protect Norine because he shot her first.

Even I found my acting utterly terrible, but everyone believed the story that I was Silva’s unwilling victim.

“He died,” she reveals warily, “His mother took over—fucking crazy woman, she is.”

My throat’s dry swallowing starts a plague of frantic thoughts clamoring for dominance in my head. Whispers of doubt, denial, and enigmatic transition between tormenting despair and helpless hope—they’re allusions to his survival strength.

I recognize the possibility that Silva is dead, but I want him coming to me with bloody footsteps deriving from obstacles he cut down. Silva would be stupid to take on the government to get to me.

For better or for worse, I want him to be alive and willing to search for me.

I’m selfish. Shooting him was a betrayal, and I’m certain he wouldn’t take lightly to being harmed.

“Do you think he’s dead?” I ask Norine.

She tosses the half-eaten apple into the trash. “He’s theoretically dead. The FBI, confidential informants, Interpol; no one knows since there isn’t body proof.”

I lick my lips, hiding the smile as hope blooms in my chest. Norine stares at my skull while trying to burn a hole into my forehead.

“If you wanted him dead, you’d shoot him in the head,” she supposes.

Norine has a point, and I don’t have a sounding reason to counter it. With the gun pointed at him, there was a moment of bleak pressure in my finger to pull the trigger.

My plans before meeting Silva were simple and adding him into the equation complicated things that I didn’t have the ability to solve. I had to improvise, and somewhere along the way of using Silva, I think I fell in love with him.

I’ve never experienced love—parental, platonic, or romantic. I don’t know if my feelings for Silva means love or reliance.

Regardless, I got to where I wanted to go: in witness protection.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” I quip as I stand with the glass.

“Depends on whom you’re asking,” she inquires, “FBI’s Norine or Sunflower Home’s ‘Sol’?”

A faint click snaps from the side, so soft that we nearly missed it. Our heads snap towards the sound and take in the appearance of an older man.

Norine sputters out bewildered laughter while she holds the counter for support.

She wheezes. “Father Mammon? All this for him, Irisa?”

He’s the sole reason for everything I’ve done up until this point. Father Mammon, a name this man gave himself as the owner of Sunflower Home.

Mammon was the head of the child trafficking ring under the guise of rehoming unwanted children to wealthy families.

Those ‘sisters’ donned in cloaks of sanctity are his helpers because children tend to trust women more than men.

The use of religious aspects is to appeal to skeptical individuals because there’s this misconception that religion is pure. Yes, it is as pure as the traffickers can make it out to be.

Father Mammon was able to escape that faithful day when he went into town for errands.

When those children and ‘sisters’ died of poisoning, I felt a sense of accomplishment and power. I crave that control over my life, and I know I wouldn’t get the full effect until Mammon dies too.

It took a while to find out he’s in the witness protection program when I narrowed down possibilities. Mammon is a coward; he does things for money without dirtying his hands.

I knew he’d definitely go into hiding.

What’s more secretive than the witness protection program?

“Irisa’s compromised safe house is your doing.” Norine crackles as she holds her stomach.

Mammon waves his gun at her, making her move towards me for more control of the room. He runs a hand into his peppered hair with a lament of exasperation.

“You two were always the troublemakers; damn psychopaths,” Mammon criticizes with no regard to the waving gun.

He points the barrel at Norine, taunting her with the power in his hand as he takes a mindless step forward. The fluctuation in Norine’s body temperature is so vast that I physically feel it on my skin as her head tilts.

The fiery red strands graze my shoulder like a curtain of hell flames. She _was_ a hellion.

Mammon says, “After the attack on the Russian government and seeing Kirk on the news, I had a gut feeling.”

His merriment is a dagger grating up my spine, but amid the deadly silence is a reminder of what I had done to lure him here.

“How much did the information cost?” I question lightly. “Isn’t that how you know where I am?”

“Not just you,” Mammon tuts with puckered lips, “When I found out there are two surviving ducks, I wasn’t going to do anything. Then, my contacts told me it was you rascals. Trouble follows you.”

Norine and I were the children Father Mammon and the sisters kept an eye out. We had more rules to follow than others.

Mammon tosses zip-ties on the kitchen table and steps back. “Tie Sol up.”

“It’s Special Agent Norine,” she complains, scoffing with disdain.

He mocks childishly and sniffles. “Not one word, Irisa.”

I surrender my hands up to the sides of my face and approach the table to grab the bindings. The edges bite into my palm as I watch the enticed antagonism glimmer in Norine’s eyes.

I snap the two ties around her wrists, ignoring her incredulous sputter as she wonders loudly.

“Two?” she gripes. “Give me some dignity.”

If she does get free, then she’s going to live as a dignified woman who tore two zip-ties.

“I was going to give you two a chance to live your lives,” he says so generously, “Only if Irisa didn’t have the mafia.”

I wouldn’t have gotten this far without Silva’s criminal influence, nor would Norine be this far into my plan.

Mammon continues his useless speech, “Thanks for getting rid of Kirk for me; I can’t take on the Russians, but your boyfriend can.”

“The feds can’t indict me down the road on two antisocial vermin’s words, but I can’t be too careful,” he muses through a hideous snort.

I observe the slight tremor in Norine’s fist and rest a hand above hers; her knuckles’ heat bleeds into my palm as I smile at her. She mirrors mine with a silent compromise.

Norine whispers sardonically under her breath, “Trust me to save you, princess?”

I don’t trust her, which is why I know she has something up her sleeves. Norine’s observation skills are sharp, and she definitely knew about Mammon coming today. She had a week worth of time to find out why exactly my location is compromised.

“Don’t do anything stupid, girls,” Mammon advises with another warning flick of his wrist.

I move back to Norine’s side, raising my hands to my face as I wait silently.

“You wouldn’t go against the Russian government, but you’ll face the mafia?” Norine questions tauntingly.

Mammon shakes his head confidently as he lowers his gun. “Decaying Sable took care of Kirk, so now only you two are left.”

I tuck a piece of hair to my ear. “What’re you going to do to me?”

Mammon beams with a sadistic white flash of his teeth. “You want to know?”

 _“Enlighten me,”_ a crushed velvet baritone evokes.

A massive silhouette drifts behind Mammon from the corner, convoluted ink branded on muscled arms, and calamitous gray eyes lunge blissful euphoria into my heart.

Silva clenches Mammon’s head with a vice grip, bashing his face into the edge of the wall with crushing power. A resounding crack of bone smashes through the air, but neither of us cares about the lethal implication.

Another shadow from the corner of my eyes shifts fleetingly. I turn like a foolish prey when Silva drops the unconscious man to stalk towards me akin to a predator.

Ivor, I remember. He holds a gun to Norine’s temple, guiding her away from me and into another room. She’s not concerned but rather gleeful from Ivo’s presence.

 _Odd_ , I surmise.

Maybe Ivo is going to kill her in another room.

It’d be freeing. In a way, she was the devil on my shoulder.

Silva’s dangerous hand slides through my hair, yanking the strands as he pulls me to his thick chest. My body tingles as his intoxicating scent trickles into my lungs; the taste of blood replaces my hazy senses.

His kiss hurts, but I miss him too much to care.

“When you want someone killed, speak up; I’ll do it for you,” he demands hoarsely against my lips, “Isn’t that the crux of this predicament?”

I wouldn’t have gotten Kirk or Mammon’s attention without Silva’s notorious reputation. I guess being an infamous mafia boss’ arm-candy is easier than infiltrating the witness protection program.

Mammon groans from the ground.

I break away from his kiss. “He’s not dead.”

“I will make him regret taking you away from me,” Silva promises, irrational.

I want to watch Mammon’s torture.

While Mammon was the motivation behind many steps I had to take to get here, but I was the one who shot Silva and left him for seven months.

I don’t think it matters to Silva. In his eyes, none of this would’ve happened if Mammon didn’t exist.

“You said you didn’t feel anything when you killed for the first time,” I mumble, holding his tight shirt around his strong waist.

“I cried, so you’re a liar,” I protest as memories of his blood still haunt me. I didn’t kill him, but it feels the same.

“Then don’t kill me,” he voices imperturbably.

He kisses me again, softer than before as I hiccup compulsorily. I can only feel contentment in his arms, and the rest is dulled with his scent.

“What’s going to happen to Norine?” I ask, and part of me wants Norine to live.

It baffles me because I wanted her dead before.

He remarks sternly, “I never kill useful pieces.”

His powerful arms circle my waist, pressing my chest to his hard muscles as my heartbeats instantly mirror his. It always comforts me, but I almost singlehandedly destroyed it with a callous gunshot.

“I gave you too much freedom; it won’t happen again, little girl,” Silva vows menacingly. “We’re going home, and you will be punished for lying.”

I’m finally going to get the family that I want; I’d hate to start another long game with Silva.

Smiling softly, I briefly wonder if I overestimated how difficult it is to make a powerhouse mafia boss fall in love with me.

I do love him—as much as the inability to love allows.

No matter; he’s mine to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	36. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Epilogue

Madame

_Five Months Later_

* * *

“Once upon a time, a mother turned her son into a monster…”

The hollowed creaks lower into a groan as the door opens, and damp mustiness surrounds the silence like a veil of desolation.

A child’s desiccating hand rests on the floor, leading to the rotting body inside the room as I walk through the hall. It’s a rather bizarrely pleasant sight; the absolute peace forms a barrier in my heart as the thumping increases with each find of decaying bodies.

I pause when a pungent scent of acetone mingles between the heavy waves of rotting flesh. Turning to survey the lunchroom, dead bodies are discarded on the ground and slumped over the tables with unfinished breakfast.

My heels snap on the grimy floor as I stroll down the dull hallway, intending to find someone alive here. I don’t have high hopes; anyone with an ounce of sanity would’ve left days ago.

That’s about how long these bodies have been decomposing.

I’m here for one purpose, and it’s to find that young child who my dear husband had given up for the sake of saving himself.

My head jerks to the rocking chair, screeching into the silence as a rat darts across the room. It’s a nursery room, but it’s hardly sustainable for long term care.

Sunflower Home is only a front. A temporary place for children to stay before being sold. Infants are much more expensive with higher risks; the nursery is evidently more equipped than the rest of the building.

I catch a glimpse of a small bodysuit inside the crib, stained with black blotches and a stench of foulness.

I recall my husband’s affair had been going on for years. Strangely, I didn’t pick up the differences in his behavior, but I also did not believe that man has the foolish bravery to betray me.

The only reason he survived this long being my husband is his subservience and for the sake of Silva.

He neglected our son, and now he has the audacity to care for another child when he already has one.

 _No matter_ , I think with a smile.

That child is a useless existence. What better way to make Silva happy than to remove such absurdity?

As I walk towards the end of the hall, I scrutinize the endless bodies of abandoned children. For a businessman, Mammon did practice an unconventional means of conduct. It would be a smart move to have enough manpower to subdue the children, but the number of children dominated the adults.

I count five women when I looked through each room with more than twenty children scattered around the building.

Mammon is nowhere to be seen, but he is the least of my problem.

I do understand why he has more children than they can handle when an emergency arises. This place is in the countryside with sparse roads; it’s a thirty-minute drive to civilization. The children can’t go far even if they escaped.

The woods behind is not a survival possibility, nor is the coal mine nearby.

The air grows stale as I step through the double door, welcoming the musty warmth of crumbling flesh and pungent copper scent on my skin.

I’m well-overdressed with a gorgeous scarlet dress in a holy sanctuary of rotting sins.

I was made aware of what my dear husband had done to his bastard child and promptly left a beautiful invitation-only gathering to be here. I needed to find that young boy and erase his existence.

I knew my husband sold the boy some time ago, but Mammon is a crafty snake with years of child trafficking experience. He knows where to hide, how to operate under the radar and cover his tracks.

There must be a reason why he abandoned his merchandise to die. I estimate he lost about a quarter of a billion in revenue.

Whatever the reason, I simply need to find one boy. It’s a shame that I don’t know the child’s name or what he looks like with limited information.

I stop at the doors and examine the spacious room; the basilica glass brings in dimmed sunlight with dust gliding through the gleams, scattered bodies going into the final stage of decomposition, and a chair in the middle of the walkway.

This room is a sanctuary, a cathedral—it’s something of false hope.

I stop by the child-sized chair, eyeing the silver recorder sitting on the surface and questioning the abnormal placement in front of the lectern.

Picking up the device, I ensure it’s not rigged with a miniature explosive before pressing the button. Nothing comes from it, and I leave it rolling while my interest in the chair placement sparks a haunting thought.

I smooth down my dress as I sit. It’s uncomfortable and small, my dress dragging across the dusty ground and pooling around my heels.

Children’s laughter chimes through the mechanical static, following closely with a soft humming from a child. The pitch is quiet, joyous, and unnerving.

“What a beautiful tune,” I whisper, gazing at the flashing red light.

It’s low on battery.

I lean back and close my eyes to breathe in the despair in the air. My heartbeats slow down with the chiming tune as I tip my head back for a deep breath.

The smell of decay never bothered me before; as someone with ties to crime syndicates, dead children are not the worst I’ve seen.

My lashes flutter open, and the basilica glass shines brilliantly above me. The iridescent shades lighten as the sunlight casts a halo of gold through the glass, basking me in the kaleidoscopic glory.

My neck cracks flatly as I look directly towards the messy hallway.

“Oh, my,” I utter softly while my gaze lingers on the hanging frames of children’s headshots on the wall.

“Mammon, that swine,” I say under my breath.

That money-hungry man undoubtedly stood behind the lectern and preached false hope to the rows of children while looking at the framed headshots as if they were his accomplishments.

On the left are monochromic photos while the right is colored ones. Intuition tells me they are children who are sold and who are still here.

There are hundreds, maybe thousands, on the wall—but only one red-haired child.

The clustered rectangular shapes wreak havoc on my skin with uneasy shivers. I rub my arms and nudge the recorder against my neck. The mechanical humming and innocent giggling worsen the shivers.

Whoever sat here listening to childish laughter and a blissful tune also witnessed the massacring carnage of suffering children.

A sadist, a reaper of joy; someone I want to meet.

 _A child, perhaps?_ I think with a chuckle.

I uncross my legs, laughing quietly as I stand to stare ahead. The opened doors allow a perfect view of the hallway and the front door.

My heels smack on the ground, trailing echoes of clacking as I leave through the double door. I came to find my husband’s affair child, but I came out with something eerily valuable.

The recorder plays another loop, and my throat tingles with the humming.

Why does this tune bring me peace?

I will find that bastard child one day. I’m in no hurry; it’ll be much more painful when I kill him if my husband bonds with that boy.

As I approach the front door, the static buzzes louder while my red heel crushes a woman’s rotting arm with a brief glance at the child’s hand that I saw when I was coming in.

If I was a compassionate woman, I’d say a prayer.

I’m not, and the sickening crunch of shattered bones under my heel doesn’t bother me either.

The recorder clicks with more static.

_“Hi, Sol. I’m new here, my name—”_

_“Irisa, yeah, I know. Everyone gets named.”_

In Roman mythology, Sol is the personification of the Sun God.

The name ‘Irisa’ is of no significance.

—

“…a monster his wife controls.”

—

“Did you like my story? It’s an accurate recount of my first meeting with my daughter-in-law. Oh, I nearly forgot that I left a bomb there, but it’s a trivial detail,” I say with a rueful sigh.

The chains rattle noisily. I smile at the vulnerable man who has his arms twisted above him, kneeling like cattle to be tamed as he should be.

My husband sneers angrily, but the exhaustion in his limbs hikes to his neck when he couldn’t keep his head up longer than seconds.

After my lovely son had given my husband to me as a present, I couldn’t simply let Silva’s efforts go to waste. I didn’t take the eyes out; I want my husband to watch me when he feels every inch of pain I inflict on his pathetic body.

Silva has outdone himself with the tactical attacks on the Russians with Decaying Sable as a proxy, intruded WITSEC, and raised to be _the_ powerhouse of criminal syndicates.

All for Irisa, a woman with no value to her life.

Silva cherishes her, and Irisa is protective of him; that’s what matters to me.

“We’re going to have a grandchild, my dear husband. It’s a shame you will never experience pure love.”

His mistress and Kirk are dead. Diplomatic immunity means nothing, and the Russians will never find my husband again.

He spits out blood with a glare as he jeers, “I don’t want to hear it from a woman who doesn’t know what that is.”

I pick up the familiar recorder, and children’s laughter takes over the underground cellar. The humming trickles through the plaguing giggles when my hands clap with excitement.

I reckon, “I do, however, know what pain is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


	37. Epilogue II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow for more [Wattpad](https://www.wattpad.com/user/Celia_Crown) and [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mini-poppy) and [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/Celia-Crown/e/B07MDW7H9Q/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1)

* * *

Epilogue II

Irisa

_Ten Years Later_

* * *

“What are you looking at?”

Silva looks away from the window, narrowing a skeptical glare to the rustling trees before those stormy gray eyes meet mine.

I huff, swinging my leg to nudge his shin under the table.

I mumble, “I don’t believe in ghosts, but the way you were looking outside makes me think otherwise.”

I believe what I see, but I’m not closed-minded on possibilities. When Silva looked at the window for longer than a passing glance, it hit something unnerving in me to question it.

Maybe I’m paranoid. I haven’t had the best experience in isolated places, and part of me still blames Mammon and Sunflower Home. Nothing about that place screamed happiness; it was a makeshift house of horror and disrespected religion.

Silva had been exposing me with trips to isolated areas, but the itch underneath my skin can’t be scratched despite the exposure.

“There is no such thing as ghosts,” he scolds evasively.

I counter rather absurdly, “I don’t believe in Santa, but he brings me presents.”

That is if Santa is a tall, burly, attractive man wearing only red pants. On every important date, holiday or not, he always has gifts for me.

He grunts, eyeing the window again. “I bring you more than presents.”

When Silva offered me the choice of picking one of his many properties as our home, I hadn’t thought out the implications in his words. When I moved out of the place that he bought me, he told me that we were going to get married.

He didn’t propose or ask; it was a simple command with those fierce gray eyes daring me to challenge him.

If he thought I was going to let him become my husband that easily, then he was correct. I still made him court me; no woman would turn down a big, powerful, handsome man pursuing them with too much vigor.

He’s rather frightening when he smothered me with his affection.

He knew showering me with expensive gifts wouldn’t work. From the very beginning, he had been spoiling me beyond what’s appropriate for whatever we were back then.

In hindsight, it could be called courting when he moved me into a massive home after the landlord died.

So, Silva took a different approach. He went for affection, and it worked like a charm to a girl who had abandonment issues.

He promised that he would never leave me, and I took the promise willingly despite Silva being a deceitful man.

That’s rich coming from a natural liar.

Silva’s keeping his promise.

_“I can live without you. I’ll grieve and move on, but I’ll remember you. You’re my wife; you’ll always have me, in life and death. You’re not replaceable. You’ve tried to kill me; I came back for you. I’ve never imagined living without you.”_

To some, Silva’s a tyrant. To me, he’s akin to the desire to live.

Earlier in our relationship, I had doubts that I could understand what being in love felt like. Silva had made it abundantly clear that his feelings are not infatuation, nor am I a passing fancy.

He was in love. Over ten years, he had taught me love in the senses of platonic, familial, and romantic. He’s my friend, family, and husband. I thought being the powerhouse mafia boss is the most he could accomplish.

_“When you die, I’ll die with you even if it’s not my time.”_

For a mafia boss, that’s as romantic as it can get with wedding vows.

_“I’m not leaving you.”_

At times, I’d think a stalker’s soul had inhibited Silva because that sounded strangely like a declaration of obsession.

“I—”

Blinking in surprise, the chair in front of me is empty. I look around quickly, scanning the cabin for signs of Silva. I didn’t notice he had left me sitting here and staring into space like an idiot.

I swear if he’s trying to pull a stunt and scare me with this ghastly danger lurking in the woods, then I will get angry.

Anger that he will kiss away. I can’t be mad when he kisses like a starved man.

Part of me is expecting a surprise gift when I leave the table. I slip into the hallway, the back of my shirt fluttering on my thighs as I stroll to embrace the warm heat.

It’s not cold, but the cabin is higher up on the mountain. The temperature is lower than the town, and I have Silva’s big, muscled arms to keep me warm.

Or he spreads my legs on the bed and fucks me until delirium slurs my words.

I might as well forgo underwear around him, so my panties don’t need to drop when he crooks a mischievous grin.

I call his name, but I don’t hear a response. The cabin isn’t that spacious; he prefers this place to feel more intimate than a massive mansion.

Our home is a mansion, and he can’t convince me otherwise.

I peer into the spare bedroom and don’t see him. A click from the backdoor pops just as I finish checking the cabin for him, thinking his massive body can’t be hidden anywhere.

I hurry to the sound, a smile spreading on my face as his name sits on my tongue. It goes back down my throat at the sight of him.

Silva closes the door softly behind him, but it’s the loudest echo that matches with a vindictive heartbeat. He stands with exuding antagonism, sin inscribing across the scarred inks and embodying raw provocation.

His dominance tips to the ragged edges of volatile sensuality when he speaks in that velvety baritone.

“Little wife,” he warns.

“Yes, dear husband?” I question back, blinking innocently with a worried gasp.

“How did she know about this cabin?” Silva commands, expectant of an answer as he turns the lock behind him without looking.

I stand my ground, desire rolling anxiously in my stomach. He shamelessly trails his gaze over my body to my eyes.

My heart thumps heavily against my ribs. A strident, almost imperceptible, shudder claws down my back—it’s an admission of guilt, and he latches onto it with a hostile glare.

“Who, Norine?” I ask lightly, “I thought Ivo was keeping an eye on her.”

The closer he gets, the more I realize that I still can’t lie to him. Ever since he found me in witness protection and carried me off, I hadn’t uttered a lie to him.

I withheld the truth, so it’s lying-adjacent. It’s only a lie when I say it, and Silva knows I’ll use that loophole when the desirable itch to lie rises.

Childhood habits are hard to change, but I’m trying, and he’s accepting of that.

Silva comes to stand in front of me, displaying the gorgeous spirals of ink on his muscled body and tempting me to touch him.

“I’m filthy,” he voices, imposing. “Come clean me.”

I smear a dot of splattered blood on his hot skin, wiping the sticky crimson over his grooved abs while shivers of lust rage between my legs. 

Peering through my lashes, I joke with a teasing smile, “Can I wash your shirt on the washboard?”

He’s all sharp angles and perverse morals, wrapping corruption around him as an insignia of solace to lure me into the comfort of his arms that’s been stained with streaking blood.

I wrap my arms around his strong waist and tighten the grip. The button-up shirt I took from his massive body absorbs the blood, transferring the cooling moisture onto my skin as I prop my chin on his chest.

“Don’t use excuses to grope,” he chides, wiping the smile off my face.

“That’s true,” I agree, nodding along, “You don’t mind me doing it anyway.”

He has never stopped me from skimming a finger over his burly arms, running a tongue down his tight abs, or even attempted to stop my fingers from inching around his neck.

The amount of unfathomable trust he has in me is undeniably comforting. I’m not a bad person; I’ve done reprehensible things in the past, hurt him, and destroyed the chance of having normalcy.

Whether I was born with war in my soul and cultivated evil in my heart from experience, I was never allowed to have normalcy.

Not from my parents, Mammon, Norine, and certainly not from Silva.

_“Ask me, Irisa; I can give up the mafia for you.”_

He vowed to me that his allegiance belongs to me. With one word, I can make him leave that dangerous domain. Silva will give me the world, but that is only if I ask.

He picked up on my habit of simply doing things without consultation. I didn’t have anyone to run my plans by, so that point is useless.

I’m selfish but never greedy.

“Answer me,” Silva snaps curtly.

His big, powerful hand swiftly smacks my ass. I yelp from the stinging pain, the throbbing pulses hotly to form his handprint under my silk panties.

The cabin is too warm for pants, but truthfully, I just like having his hand stroke my legs mindlessly.

Silva accuses with a glare, “You were going to let a stranger see your panties.”

My nails run down his back naughtily; his heart jerks between thumps. His lips twist into a frown, darkening the tension in his alarmingly composed gaze.

“I didn’t know we were having guests.” I shrug, sensing his hand flexing and clamping his fingers on my ass.

He reckons, “We weren’t, and no one will come.”

I swallow thickly and scrutinize a drop of blood trickling down his inked chest. My finger traces the blood, smearing it over the new tattoo where he had my name engraved over the bullet scar I gave him.

It’s confusing for me, but it made my heart flutter when he got it.

“That sounds ominous considering we’re in the middle of nowhere,” I mutter, enthralled by the delicate strokes in the ink.

His chest rumbles deeply, shocking me out of my trance. “The only sound you’re making is screaming.”

My arms leave his waist and angle back to stare at him. “Why?”

He says, so unreservedly detached, “You made me kill someone.”

My teeth catch my bottom lip, nipping softly to carefully examine my words. His heady scent flushes into my lungs with trailing cooper as memories of that awful woman resurfaces.

“She was trying to take you from me,” I recall, instantly pulling a sneer on my face. “That woman, whatever her name is with a squirrel tattoo.”

I’m not involved with Silva’s business, but it wasn’t hard to notice the faint fragrance of rancidness on occasions when he returned from work.

I have trust in my husband; he is faithful.

One evening, we were having dinner at an upscale restaurant when that woman came, invited herself to our private table, and ran her tongue on business strategies as if I was invisible.

I knew it was that woman the moment I smelled her horrid perfume. So, when Silva left the table to answer a call with Ivo staring at the woman like a hawk, I casually let it slip that Silva would be at the cabin _alone_.

She wanted to lie in bed with Silva, and I wanted her to sleep as nature’s compost.

“I know,” I say promptly, “You said to tell you if I want someone dead.”

“Yet, you didn’t,” he says, but it’s not harsh, “Now, I’m dirtied.”

I back away slowly. His arms flex, shaping habitual strength to keep me close before letting them fall to his sides.

“Where’s the fun without playing dirty?” I whisper daringly.

A light blush kisses my cheeks, similar to the way he’d kiss me in the morning. I shuffle my bare feet, squirming under his inquisitive gaze that easily transcends to iniquity as a depraved shade of gray dominates.

“Is that how you want to play, little wife?” he asks, a cruel smirk spreads the streaked blood on his cheek.

They’re red strings—tugging, unraveling, _splintering_ the façade of a man I’ve come to love for a monster that I’ve come to depend on.

He lunges at me, and my squealing laughter echoes throughout the cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!
> 
> This concludes Silva and Irisa's journey. I had much fun writing them and their dynamic. Some readers might not like how I've written them with morally-corrupted guidance and questionable content (emotional manipulation, dubious consent, etc); that's fine, but understand that as a writer, what I write doesn't reflect on my morals. 
> 
> Thank you for staying with me during the journey of writing "Silva."
> 
> I got to share what I do as a passion to everyone, and thank you for the lovely support! Please, share this story. I greatly appreciate everyone who gave my story a chance!

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, kudos, bookmark, share!


End file.
